


Sons of Liberty

by BrunetteAuthorette99, carrioncrowned



Category: Hannibal (TV), National Treasure (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, American History, Crossover, Heist, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Husbands Big Bang, Slow Burn, Somehow Not Complete Crack (But It Has Its Moments), Treasure Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-04 01:32:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12158865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrunetteAuthorette99/pseuds/BrunetteAuthorette99, https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrioncrowned/pseuds/carrioncrowned
Summary: Hannibal Lecter has been hunting the legendary treasure of the Knights Templar ever since his sister died pursuing it. But when their business partner betrays them to keep the riches for himself, Hannibal and Chiyoh are forced to steal one of the most important documents in American history in order to uncover the hidden map to the treasure, and then find it before their nemesis — or the FBI — finds them.There's only two problems. The first is the sarcastic, yet compellingly perceptive curator in their way.The second is they're stealing the Declaration of Independence.AHannibal/National Treasurecrossover written for the 2017 Murder Husbands Big Bang, with art bycarrioncrowned.





	1. In which an unusual bedtime story is told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my second fanfiction foray into _Hannibal_ and my first writing contribution to a Big Bang! I wrote this for the first-ever [Murder Husbands Big Bang](https://murder-husbands-big-bang.tumblr.com/), and I'm really excited about how it turned out!
> 
> This fic is dedicated to [ibelonginastorybook](http://ibelonginastorybook.tumblr.com/), who was inspired by our back-to-back _Hannibal_ season 3 and _National Treasure_ marathons to suggest the idea for this gloriously dumb crossover to me, and [carrioncrowned](https://carrioncrowned.tumblr.com/), who created the incredibly vivid and beautiful art that graces this fic. Without them, this fic would not be what it is today.
> 
> Enjoy the fic!

**_Baltimore, Maryland  
_** **_Ten Years Ago_ **

“Tell me a story.”

Hannibal pauses at the threshold, his finger hovering over the light switch, and looks back into his niece’s bedroom. It is more of a demand than a request, but Abigail has never been one for niceties. (Despite being adopted, she has nevertheless inherited the predilection of the Lecters to ask forgiveness before permission.)

“What kind of story?” he asks, turning from the door to the bookcase. The top two shelves are Abigail’s books alone, thumbed-through picture books side-by-side with a slightly newer junior encyclopedia set; the bottom shelf is dedicated to an overflow of scholarly journals from his office and falling-apart research notebooks from her mother. “Shall I continue reading from this?” From the second shelf, he pulls out the most tattered book there: a collection of Eastern European folk tales and myths.

Abigail rolls her eyes. “I’m too old for fairy tales, Uncle.”

Hannibal is amused. “Too old at the tender age of nine?”

Abigail is less amused. “I want a _real_ story. Something that actually happened.”

Hannibal slides the book back onto the shelf. There would be time for fantasy some other night. “You have a story in mind.”

“Mom said she’d tell me it when she came back.” Even buried under her quilt and near-smothered in pillows, Abigail still manages to petulantly hunch her shoulders. “That’s what she said the last time she left, too.”

 _Ah,_ Hannibal realizes. _She wants_ that _story._

“That’s because it is a very difficult story,” he says. “There is no certain beginning, a mysterious middle, and no end in sight.” He comes to the foot of her bed and sits down. “My sister — your mother — has spent her life chasing that end. I think she wants to wait until she writes the end herself to tell you.”

“But _you_ know,” Abigail says, sitting up. “Why can’t you tell me what there is so far?”

Hannibal considers it. It’s not an unreasonable request. Besides, he suspects that Mischa’s secrecy has less to do with reluctance and more to do with self-consciousness. She is brilliant and brave, yes, but she cannot spin a story like he can.

“What period of history were you studying with your mother, before she left?” he asks.

“The American Revolutionary War.” Abigail rolls her eyes. It’s a habit she’d picked up recently from one of her friends from Girl Scouts, and Hannibal, however endearing he finds his niece, can’t say he’s fond of it. “She’s been talking to me about it for _weeks_.”

 _As good a starting point as any._ “You’ll already know all about Tadeusz Kościuszko, then.”

Abigail blinks. “Who?”

“Tadeusz Kościuszko,” Hannibal repeats. He’d be very surprised if Mischa hadn’t mentioned him to Abigail at least _once_ during her homeschooling. “A military engineer of Polish and Lithuanian descent. As a colonel in the Continental Army, he designed the defenses that helped them beat General John Burgoyne at the Battle of Saratoga.”

Abigail nods like she knows what he’s talking about, but she’s frowning. “Why are you telling me this?”

Hannibal pauses. In the corridors of his mind, he walks around trunks of half-packed clothing to a window washed with rain and overlooking the pointed Parisian skyline. Mischa is curled up next to their aunt on the window seat, her blonde curls falling over her tear-streaked face.

Murasaki sees him and smiles, though it cannot chase the deep sadness from her eyes. _Come,_ she says, holding out her hand. _This is a good story for stormy nights._

“It was the autumn of 1817, in Solothurn, Switzerland,” he says, hearing a ghost of his aunt’s murmured words in his own. “After surviving two revolutions — one he joined on behalf of the ideals of liberty and one he started himself on behalf of his beloved Poland— Kościuszko was dying. But he had one last thing to do before he died, a secret to share. And as he breathed his last, he took his physician into his confidence.”

He has Abigail’s attention now. “What was the secret?”

Hannibal leans in. “A treasure,” he says. “A treasure beyond all imagining.”

Abigail’s eyes go wide. “What kind of treasure?” she asks, breathless.

“A treasure created by the great empires of the ancient world. A treasure fought over for centuries by pharaohs, tyrants, emperors, warlords, khans, kings. Every time it changed hands, it grew in grandeur. Until —” he snaps his fingers in front of her nose and Abigail nearly jumps “— it vanished from all living memory.

“A thousand years later, the treasure was rediscovered — this time by knights from the First Crusade, delving into the hidden vaults beneath the Temple of Solomon. But unlike those who came before them, hungry for gold and glory, those knights believed the treasure was too great for any one man. Swearing to safeguard it, they brought the treasure back to Europe and took the name of the Knights Templar. But an unearthed treasure cannot remain unknown for long, and the Knights were all but stamped out by those seeking the treasure for themselves.

“Over the centuries, the descendants of the Knights who escaped execution began to smuggle the treasure out of Europe, to the newly discovered lands across the Atlantic. Those descendants called themselves the Freemasons, in honor of the builders of the great temple. But war followed them, and by the time of the American Revolutionary War, the treasure had been hidden again: this time for good.”

Abigail has been completely engrossed, but now she interrupts. “Why? If the treasure was worth a lot, the Patriots could have used the money to pay for the war.”

Hannibal laughs. “Yes, I suppose they could have,” he admits. “But for the Freemasons, it was far more important that the treasure never fall into the hands of the British. To safeguard it, they devised a series of clandestine clues and maps leading to its location. Only one who knew of the Freemason’s signs and secrets could ever hope to find the treasure.”

“Someone like Tad — Kos —” Abigail gives up on pronouncing the name correctly “— the engineer?”

“Like Tadeusz Kościuszko, yes,” Hannibal agrees. “But even he only had a piece of the puzzle. Over time, the Freemasons’ trail to the treasure had been lost, with only one tantalizing remnant surviving.” He pauses. “A name.”

( _Charlotte,_ Murasaki’s memory whispers. _The secret lies with Charlotte._ )

“Who’s Charlotte?” Abigail wants to know.

“I don’t know,” Hannibal says, “and I doubt Kościuszko did, either. But he knew that the clue could not be lost — and so he told Tomas Lecter: his physician and my grandfather’s great-grandfather.”

Abigail nods, taking the story in. Rather than being confused, she is curious, and that pleases Hannibal. “So you and my mom learned it from your parents?”

“Our aunt. She learned of it from her husband, my Uncle Robertas, and told us the story not long after his death, before we came to the States.”

“So does _Mom_ know who Charlotte is?” Abigail asks pointedly.

Hannibal considers it. “Perhaps.”

Not for the first time, he wonders where Mischa is, and what she’s after — not that it’s uncommon for Abigail to stay with him while Mischa is away, but she’s never been absent for more than two or three weeks. It’s been a month now, and, as he looks at the _Bambi_ alarm clock on Abigail’s nightstand, he realizes she’s about two hours late to check in for the day.

That being said, Mischa had a singular focus and a steely resolve. If she hadn’t returned yet, Hannibal rationalized, it meant that she might be close to finding a new clue.

_Might._

“Your mother grew up dreaming of rediscovering the Templar treasure,” he finally says. “If there’s anyone who will find Charlotte, it’ll be her.”

Abigail beams.

Outside in the hall, the phone rings.

Hannibal is on his feet in an instant. “Forgive my rudeness, Abigail, but this might be your mother.”

“Could you bring the phone in here?” Abigail asks eagerly. “I want to talk to her.”

With a nod, Hannibal leaves his niece’s bedroom and goes to the table at the top of the stairs. The phone sits on a Chippendale end table between two framed photographs: one older one of Abigail on her first day of kindergarten and a newer one of himself, his sister, and Abigail at Christmas.

He picks up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hannibal?” Mischa’s voice crackles and breaks up; Hannibal realizes she must be in an area of poor reception. “Hannibal, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Mischa; I’m here.” He leans against the table, relieved. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

“Hannibal, listen to me. I don’t have a lot of time, and what I’m about to tell you might be the most important thing you’ll ever hear.”

Hannibal stills. His gaze goes towards Abigail’s open door, but he stays where he is. “Mischa, what’s going on?”

“I found her, Hannibal.” Mischa’s voice is clearer now, but still quietly desperate. “I found Charlotte.”

Hannibal’s breath catches in his throat. “How?” he demands. “Where?”

“It wasn’t a person — it was a _ship_.” Mischa’s words are getting faster, more frantic. “It was a frigate owned by the House of Hancock, the trading firm that John Hancock inherited from his uncle. I’ve been pouring over shipping records from the late eighteenth century, and the last record of the _Charlotte_ comes from 1779. It was last seen leaving Boston Harbor for Nova Scotia to collect whale oil and fish before continuing to France, but it never made it.” She stops. “I have no idea where it might have ended up, but it’s a start.”

Something unfamiliar rises in Hannibal’s chest: a reeling, wild hope. “Mischa,” he says in wonder, “it’s more than a start. You found her. Two centuries of time between you and her, and _you found her._ ”

“A trace of her, anyway.” Mischa laughs shakily.

Somewhere on her end of the line, there is a distant screech of tires.

Hannibal frowns. “Mischa, where are you?” he asks. “Will you be home soon?”

“Motel outside of Boston. Should be home soon, but —” She breaks off, and Hannibal hears what’s startled her: a loud rapping sound.

When Mischa speaks again, it’s hushed and hurried. “I have to go. Tell Abigail — tell her I love her.” She inhales shakily. “I love you both. With all my life.”

“Mischa, you’re worrying me. What’s wrong?”

The line is silent in his ear. Then there’s a tremendous crash, nearly muffled by a crackling _thud_. It isn’t until Hannibal hears Mischa’s distant voice that he realizes, dread sinking in his stomach, that she’s dropped the phone.

“I don’t know who the hell you are,” Mischa is hissing far above him, “but if you’re here because of my research, I’m not _selling_ it to anyone, least of all who _you’re_ working for. And if you think intimidation is going to change that —”

A _crack_. A strangled scream. Heavy footsteps, and then a _beep beep beep_ as the line goes dead.

“Mischa?” Hannibal’s knuckles are white around the phone. “ _Mischa!_ ”

No response.

He catches motion out of the corner of his eye: Abigail, out of bed and in the doorway. “Was that Mom?” she asks, her voice high with fright. “What’s wrong?”

Hannibal turns away, eyes burning. Slowly, he lets the phone fall back into its cradle, next to Mischa’s glowing, frozen face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features header art by [carrioncrowned](https://carrioncrowned.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, which you can also see [here](https://78.media.tumblr.com/1962eaa77ec967d9260be4ac8d759ca4/tumblr_oxwrt0hqoB1vvic2no3_1280.png)!
> 
> My primary resource for this fic was, of course, the movie _National Treasure_ , along with [an Internet transcript of questionable quality](http://www.justinbartha.altervista.org/Ntscript.htm), and (when the occasion called for a _Hannibal_ reference) [the _Hannibal_ scripts](http://livingdeadguy.com/shows/hannibal/). I also used [an early draft of the _National Treasure_ script](http://www.patriotresource.com/nationaltreasure/insights/030409.pdf), which for the most part is kind of shitty and bears little resemblance to the movie I love, but it has some good historical details and fun character moments that I tried to work in. (But seriously: read it at your own risk.)
> 
> As far as the historical (and occasional practical) research for this fic went, I operated under the principle of "if it works for the story, keep it; if it doesn't work and it's so inaccurate it drives you insane, cut it or change it." (Generally, I'm a big fan of historical accuracy in my media, but I have to admit that combining the Hollywood conspiracy-theory history of _National Treasure_ and the time-bending, hyper-surreal nightmarescape of _Hannibal_ makes for a story that can afford to stray from reality.)
> 
> That being said, Tadeusz Kościuszko is the coolest least-known historical figure I ever learned about from making an American Revolution-themed alphabet book in eighth grade. [This Smithsonian article](http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/polish-patriot-who-helped-americans-beat-british-180962430/) gives a pretty good overview of his life and historical significance.


	2. In which there is a mutiny on the Charlotte.

**_North of the Arctic Circle  
_** **_Present Day_ **

“Hannibal?”

Low, yet piercing, Chiyoh’s voice drags him out of the darkest depths of his memory palace, back within the snowcat. The interior is freezing, the din of the engine and the scrape of the treads are deafening, the harsh light outside is blinding — and there is nowhere else that Hannibal would rather be.

Hannibal blinks once or twice, then refocuses on the laptop screen. Their trail across the digital map is like a strand of pearls, snaking towards a blinking light in the lower corner. “Left.”

Chiyoh turns her attention forward and corrects course.

Beside him in the back seat, Chilton fidgets. “Are we getting close?”

Not for the first time on this expedition, Hannibal considers asking Chiyoh to stop the snowcat so he can expose Chilton to the elements.

Chiyoh shows admirable restraint. “My tracking model is accurate and Hannibal’s theory is sound. We are getting close, Dr. Chilton.”

Chilton smiles thinly. “Forgive me if I sound skeptical, but you’ve been saying that for the past week.”

“While we have continued to move closer.” Chiyoh presses a little harder on the gas and coaxes the snowcat over the uneven, icy terrain.

“Not as fast as I would prefer.”

“Would you prefer pursuit in the manner of Robert Peary and Matthew Henson, then?” Hannibal asks. “Crossing the Arctic on foot and on dogsled?”

Chilton decides to save his dignity and not reply.

In the front seat, Alana scans the horizon. “The Inuit said they could still see the masts protruding through the ice just three generations ago,” she muses. “This landscape is as flat as they come.”

“But how did the _Charlotte_ even get out here, Dr. Bloom?” Chilton persists. “We’re a little far inland for a ship to run aground.”

Hannibal decides to intervene. “I make no pretense at being an expert, _Frederick_ ,” he says, “but it could be that the hydrothermal properties of this region produce hurricane-force ice storms that would cause the ocean to freeze, then melt, and then refreeze.” He adjusts the digital map to take a better look at the topographic layers. “Those events would then result in a semi-solid migrating land mass that would land a ship right around —”

The laptop suddenly emits a high-pitched beeping. In the lower corner, the blinking icon labeled _Charlotte_ starts to blink faster.

Chilton glances over, the slightly sour look on his face replaced with one of interest. Alana looks back too, eyes widening with surprise. Chiyoh brings the snowcat to a halt in seconds.

“Here,” Hannibal finishes after a beat, closing the laptop. “Right around here.”

 

The ship’s bell is solid bronze, made heavier by the chunks of ice that had encased it when the metal detectors had first picked it up beneath the layers of snow. The inscription on the skirt had eroded, with only a few faint words remaining — _memory, Massacre, might —_ but on the curve, the name in raised block letters is still recognizable as _Charlotte._

Hannibal appreciatively runs a gloved hand over the metal, and then looks back. From his position on the collapsed quarter deck, he could see the full length of the ship as snow is shoveled and ice is chipped away from the frozen timbers. Alana and Chilton are on the main deck, attempting to pry the hatch leading below the deck open. While Chiyoh carefully dusts off the carved figurehead in the shadow of the snowcats, Cordell and Dolarhyde unearth the rusted, brittle cannons with surprising delicacy. Even as a wreck, the ship still has a startling power to snare attention.

 _You should be here, Mischa,_ he thinks, his earlier melancholy returning. _The_ Charlotte _should have been all yours._

A drawling, slightly nasal voice intrudes. “Congratulations on the return in investment, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal represses a sigh and turns his head. Mason is next to him, wrapped in a puffy white parka that renders him nearly invisible against the snow in the distance; even with the fur-lined hood up, his wispy shock of hair still flies in every direction.

“And I am grateful for that investment, Mason,” Hannibal says as evenly as he can. “I don’t think the _Charlotte_ would have been found otherwise.”

“Probably not.” Mason claps him on the shoulder, a little too hard. “Lucky for you, Dr. Lecter, I’m willing to take risks on... unconventional ventures.” He grins widely. “Now, let’s reap my rewards, hmm?”

As if on cue, the hatch that Alana and Chilton have been chipping at on the main deck opens up with a cracking of ice in unused hinges.

 

The main deck and the hold of the _Charlotte_ may have the same bitter, bitingly cold air, but the silence in each environment is different — above, nothing but the wispy hiss of wind over ice; below, a near-absence of sound except for a constant, hollow echo ringing in the ears. It drips off the stalactite-sized icicles hanging from the underside of the deck and pools in the cavernous, yet cramped space. It’s the sort of place that might once have given Hannibal pause to creep into, had he not once known something more solitary, more stifling, more chilling.

The silence is soon broken by the tramping of boots and the creaking of old wood as the team begins to split off to open doors and pry open crates — and briefly, a shriek that seems to shake what’s left of the ship. Seconds after, Chilton stumbles out of the berthing quarters, his face paler than the beam of his flashlight. Hannibal looks through the door as he passes and sees a frozen arm, skin leathery and taut to the bone, hanging out of one of the hammocks.

Then Chiyoh and her crowbar finally pry open the door to the cargo hold, and the seven of them file in, their mingled breath billowing in the contained space. Their flashlights dart every which way, but all that can be seen are bundles of lines and rigging hanging above, with rows and rows of barrels below.

“Perhaps the treasure’s inside the barrels?” Chilton suggests, his composure regained at the prospect of riches.

Mason languidly waves his hand, and Dolarhyde kicks over one of the nearby barrels and digs his pickaxe into the head, splitting it open. A black, sand-like substance spills out on the ground.

Cordell bends down to take a small sample to sniff. “Gunpowder,” he reports. “I’d be interested to see if it still works.”

Mason sniffs, but Hannibal barely notices. His attention is on one of the barrels in the corner, with another frozen corpse — this one in a tattered coat and a tricorn hat, cradling a rifle in the crook of its arm — slumped beside it.

Frowning, Hannibal crouches down and breaks the crusty snow off the barrel, but there are no marks stamped into the wood. _Now why would this barrel, out of all others, be guarded?_

Behind him, Cordell and Dolarhyde tip over the barrel and dump the rest of the gunpowder out, and the others, save for a pouting Mason, fan out to check the other barrels. Prying the rifle from its owner’s skeletal hand, Hannibal slams the butt of the rifle into the barrel head, and it cracks open. Leaning it on its side, he slowly pours the gunpowder out, until it exposes a pale mass within.

Heart pounding, Hannibal rights the barrel and then pulls out his find: a square bundle wrapped in sailcloth.

Chiyoh is at his side in an instant. “Have you found something?”

Hannibal nods, placing the bundle on top of an unopened barrel and unwrapping it. Despite his fit of pique, Mason is curious and comes to hover nearby; the others soon drift over to watch as Hannibal reveals a metal box with a lid embossed with an eagle with spread wings. His fingers find the edge of the lid, and he lifts it off.

Inside the box is a pipe with a dark stem and a bone-white bowl, elaborately carved in the form of castle battlements and a knight with a standard atop them.

“Oh, a meerschaum pipe,” Mason says admiringly. “Papa had three; thought they gave a sweeter smoke.” He squints at it. “This could fetch a pretty penny, but I don’t see how _this_ is the Knights Templar’s legendary treasure.”

“It’s not.” Hannibal holds up the pipe and peers at the scrollwork on the shank. The decoration is irregular, less artful than the rest of the pipe. “It’s a clue.”

Mason screws up his face peevishly. “I thought you said the treasure would be _on_ the _Charlotte_.”

“I said, ‘the secret lies with Charlotte.’” Hannibal puts the pipe down and digs in his coat pocket for his notebook, then opens it up to a blank page. “And I believe this pipe _is_ that secret.”

“Well, for a quarter of a million dollars, I expected more than a fancy snuff stick,” Mason remarks testily. “It only took me three weeks to find the Panamanian galleon wreck with my last so-called ‘expert’ — and I’ve been funding _you_ , Dr. Lecter, for seven months.”

(“Six,” Chiyoh corrects under her breath.)

“I told you I was on a treasure hunt, Mason. It wouldn’t be much of a hunt if the treasure was in the first place you looked.” Picking up the pipe again, Hannibal carefully pried the stem and the shank loose from the bowl. “May I borrow your pocketknife?”

His face is still sour, but Mason hands over his knife anyway. Pulling off his glove, Hannibal flicks open the blade and presses it into his uncovered thumb. Blood instantly wells up in the cut.

Putting down the knife next to the pipe’s case, Hannibal takes the shank and spreads his blood over it, staining the mineral a bright red. Now the decorations are clearer: not just as swirling lines, but as words in script.

 _The chase continues..._ Hannibal rolls the shank over his notebook page, leaving the words stamped on the paper. Fitting the pieces of the pipe back together, putting the pipe back in the box, and pulling his glove back on, he then reads the message out:

> _The legend writ, the stain affected,_
> 
> _The key in Silence undetected._
> 
> _Fifty-five in iron pen:_
> 
> _Mr. Matlack can’t offend._

“A riddle,” Chiyoh says.

Mason rolls his eyes. “Oh, goodie. Was there a part about ‘“X” marks the spot’ that I missed?”

Hannibal ignores him. _“The legend writ, the stain affected”... but what legend? The legend of the Templar treasure? So this stain affects the legend… but how?_ He reads over the poem again, then a third time. _“The key in silence undetected”... so there’s a legend, a key —_

“A map,” he says aloud.

“A map?” Chilton repeats.

“Legends and keys,” Alana says simply. “Maps have both.”

“Not just any map,” Hannibal muses. “An invisible one.”

“An _invisible_ map?” Chilton asks incredulously.

“‘The stain affected’ could refer to a die or reagent used to bring about a certain result,” Hannibal explains. “Combined with ‘the key in silence undetected,’ the implication is to make what was undetectable detectable.” He pauses. “Unless ‘the key in silence’ is —”

“Prison.”

Everyone turns to look at Dolarhyde in surprise — although Hannibal is more struck by the fact that the hulking man is actually speaking.

“‘Fifty-five in iron pen,’” Dolarhyde grunts. “Prison sentence.”

Cordell shrugs. “Clever wordplay.”

“ _Or_ it could refer to the primary medium of writing in the late eighteenth century,” Alana counters, “which would have been iron gall ink.”

“Then why not just say it’s a pen?” Chilton points out. “Why an ‘iron pen’?”

“Because the iron does not describe what was in the pen,” Hannibal says, almost to himself. “It describes _what_ was penned: like iron. Firm, adamant, and... resolved.” He re-reads the last line of the poem: _Mr. Matlack can’t offend._

And suddenly, Hannibal knows the answer to the riddle.

“Timothy Matlack was one of the primary scribes employed by the Continental Congress,” he says slowly. “To avoid ‘offending’ this map, he must have put it on the back of a resolution that he transcribed — a resolution that, at the time of the _Charlotte_ ’s disappearance, fifty-five men had signed.” He pauses, still hardly unable to believe what he was about to say. “The Declaration of Independence.”

There is a stunned silence. Then: “Come _on_ ,” Chilton scoffs. “There’s no invisible treasure map on the back of the Declaration of Independence.”

“It’s brilliant, if you think about it,” Alana marvels. “Matlack knew the importance of the document would ensure the map’s survival.”

“But how would he have even known to put it there?” Chilton retorts. “And how did he know about the treasure in the first place? He must have learned it from someone.”

“At least eight signers of the Declaration of Independence were known Freemasons, Benjamin Franklin and John Hancock among them.” Hannibal closes his notebook and tucks it back in his jacket pocket. “George Washington was a Master Mason, and although he wasn’t a signer, he would have had access to the Declaration. He was also a surveyor and map-maker before he was commander of the Continental Army, so he could be your culprit, Dr. Chilton.”

“Thank you for the Who’s Who of famous Masons, Dr. Lecter,” Mason says, “but it doesn’t matter _who_ drew a treasure map on the back of the Declaration of Independence: only that the map is _there._ ” He puffs himself up and takes the case with the pipe, pleased once again. “We’ll have to arrange to examine the document — or _I_ will arrange; I have a connection in D.C. who can get us an audience. She’ll be reluctant to deal with me, probably even resist, but I’ve always convinced her to come around.”

Alana’s eyes dart to Mason, but she says nothing.

Hannibal resisted the urge to rub his temples. While Mason all but literally throwing money at him _did_ drastically decrease the time spent hunting for the final resting place of the _Charlotte_ , Mason openly boasting about his family’s wealth and influence was unhelpful at best and gauche at worst. “We’re speaking of one of the most important documents in U.S. history, Mason. No archivist, bribed or otherwise, is going to be willing to let _us_ run chemical tests on it.”

“Well, Dr. Lecter, if you have a better idea, I am all ears,” Mason says. “But my — excuse me, _our_ — choices are appealing to my sister’s brotherly love or… _borrowing_ it without her knowing.” He shrugs. “No skin off my back either way!”

Hannibal looks at him sharply, more out of surprise at the suggestion than shock over his patron’s cavalier attitude.

“When you first came to me, you told me that the lost treasure of the Knights Templar was the treasure to end all treasures,” Mason says. “Gold from the Temple of Solomon. King Alaric I’s ransom of the Athenians. The wealth of the Twelve Caesars. The sword of Alexander the Great. And you’re about to let a piece of paper get between you and all that?”

“Because there’s more between us and the Declaration,” Hannibal points out.

Mason snorts. “Please. I don’t _just_ write checks, Dr. Lecter. We all have our areas of expertise; mine is skirting legal loopholes to get what I want — with a little helping hand from these fine gentleman,” he adds, gesturing at Cordell and Dolarhyde. “Besides: you’ve been chasing this treasure for near ten years, and you mean to tell me you _never_ took a little shortcut outside the law to get closer to it?”

Hannibal bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from snarling.

Mason smirks, then turns to address the others. “Anyone else afraid of getting rich and famous?”

Cordell and Dolarhyde remain impassive. Chilton shakes his head fervently. Alana crosses her arms and avoids Hannibal’s gaze. Chiyoh stays silent, but Hannibal can feel her unwavering presence at his back.

“Five to two.” Mason spins back around and gives Hannibal a sickly-sweet smile. “The National Archives won’t know what hit it.”

“They will,” Hannibal says tightly.

Mason chuckles. “Ah, no. They _won’t_.” He snaps his fingers.

Dolarhyde draws a pistol, pointing it directly at Hannibal’s chest.

Alana’s eyes widen. Cordell’s and Chiyoh’s hands fly to the handles of their own guns, but neither one draws. Chilton gives a start and stumbles back, despite being out of the line of fire.

Hannibal remains where he is and doesn’t raise his hands. “I would think about this, Mason — you, too, Francis,” he says carefully. “I unraveled the riddle. What if there was more to it, another clue I haven’t told you?”

Mason laughs even harder, snorting loudly. “Oh, Dr. Lecter! I’m glad we never played poker; that face of yours could hustle any house!”

Hannibal only smiles politely. His left hand creeps towards the open, bloody penknife; his right hand goes into his pocket, feeling around the outline of his notebook for something else.

“But if you _have_ been holding out on me with that riddle, I’d really like to know,” Mason continues. “So how about you analyze that poem a little harder, and I won’t shoot your green card girlfriend?”

Dolarhyde shifts the barrel of the gun from Hannibal to Chiyoh. Chiyoh stares at him challengingly, her hand not moving from her pistol.

“Mason, there’s no need for violence,” Alana says, her voice strained. ( _Good,_ Hannibal thinks. _Let her feel the futility of regret._ ) “Hannibal and I completed our PhDs together; I know everything he knows.”

“As do I,” Chilton says quickly, not missing an opportunity to vie for the center of attention. “And then some.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. He has the knife now, hidden at his side behind the bulk of his coat, and the fingers in his pocket have brushed over metal.

“Dr. Bloom, Dr. Chilton, I’m not questioning your undeniable expertise,” Mason says, not quite sounding contrite. “I’d just like to hear this answered from the horse’s mouth. And if the horse needs the stick to come to the carrot, well —”

Hannibal brings out the lighter from his pocket and flicks it to life. At the sight of flame, Dolarhyde turns the gun back to him.

“By all means, Francis: shoot me,” Hannibal says. His heart is still beating a steady tattoo under his ribs. “But if you do so, this lighter will drop in that gunpowder you so helpfully poured on the ground earlier.”

Dolarhyde looks down at his feet. Hannibal doesn’t need to look to know that the hulking man, plus Mason and Cordell, are all standing in it: black powder on white.

Chiyoh sighs.

Mason’s nose wrinkles with his scowl. “It’s all fun and games until fire and gunpowder get in the mix, Dr. Lecter,” he says. “Enough of your poker face and your cheap lighter; tell me what I need to know, _now._ ”

Hannibal doesn’t hesitate. Eyes on the door, he tosses the lighter in the air.

Mason catches it before it hits the ground. “Ah-ah. Close, but no cigar, Dr. Lec —”

His gloating is cut short when the flame from the lighter catches the abundant material of his coat. As Mason shouts and flails his arm in a panic, the lighter slips from his gloves and lands in the pile of gunpowder.

Hannibal had lunged forward, but now he reels back as a wall of fire erupts in front of him. Chiyoh grabs his shoulder and pulls him down as Dolarhyde shoots blindly into the flames. Mason yells something over the gunfire, but Hannibal doesn’t hear it.

And then he sees them running towards the door.

Chilton is first, followed by Alana. Cordell is next, dragging Dolarhyde away from the fire. Mason is last, and the slamming door is the last thing Hannibal can make out before the fire engulfs the back wall.

Hannibal scans the cargo hold, looking for another escape. There are no portholes and no hatches, but there _is_ one long trail of spilled gunpowder leading to a cluster of barrels: unopened, but surely full of more gunpowder.

And the flame from his lighter is slowly snaking towards those barrels.

Behind him, there is a muffled _clang._ Hannibal turns to see Chiyoh uncovering and wrenching open a hidden door.

Chiyoh jerks her head towards it. “Get in!”

Silently thanking whatever smugglers had sailed on the _Charlotte_ , Hannibal grabs his lighter and then crawls down inside the hold. Chiyoh drops down beside him and shuts the door overhead.

The space is low and cramped, but surprisingly long; Hannibal is certain it runs nearly the full length of the ship. Chiyoh flattens herself against the hull and crawls forward, as far away from the cargo hold as she can go, and Hannibal follows her.

Not long after and not far behind them, there is a _crack_ , and then another, and another. There’s just enough time for Hannibal to bring his arms up behind his head before the deck and the holds overhead crash down on top of them.

 

Blue. A startlingly pale, but brilliant, unclouded blue.

Hannibal squints as he registers first the color, then the light behind it, and then what the color and the light belong to: the Arctic sky.

He lets his eyelids fall briefly and remembers eyes of that same blue: frozen in a photograph by the phone.

His ears are still ringing from the explosion, but as the ringing dies, he faintly hears his name. Cracking open one eye, Hannibal sees Chiyoh leaning over him.

“Hannibal,” she says. “You can hear me?”

Hannibal nods, and the motion throbs down his neck and right to his feet. He flexes his fingers and wiggles his toes experimentally; he still has use of all his extremities, but there’s a bone-deep ache that permeates his body, and he feels as though his skin is one extended bruise.

“The _Charlotte_ is gone.” Chiyoh sits back on her heels. “The explosion brought the ship down and knocked you out. I pulled you from the wreckage.”

Despite the pain, Hannibal struggles to sit up and then look around. Splintered timbers, frayed rigging, and fragments of the hull litter the snow. Part of the figurehead that Chiyoh was salvaging earlier — most of the head and a single shoulder — is embedded upside-down nearby, still smiling blankly at them.

Hannibal exhales heavily, letting his head fall. There’s a glint of silver within his pocket, and he realizes that Chiyoh has cleaned and closed Mason’s penknife and slipped it inside his jacket.

_Mason..._

Hannibal’s jaw tightens. “Are we all who are left?”

Chiyoh points out beyond the wreckage. The only sign that the snowcats were ever there is the tracks stamped in the snow.

Hannibal stares out towards the horizon. “Mason Verger’s going to steal the Declaration of Independence,” he says, and somehow, it’s not the least believable thing he’s said that day.

Chiyoh shrugs. “He will try.”

“He’ll likely succeed.” Hannibal leans forward, planting his hands on the ground and slowly getting to his feet. “Unless we stop him.”

Chiyoh stands with him. “For the sake of the treasure?” she asks. “Or for the sake of revenge?”

“Yes.” Hannibal starts walking; there was an Inuit village about nine miles east that they could get to before dark if they were fast and lucky.

 _And for Mischa,_ he adds, as Chiyoh falls into step beside him and the _Charlotte_ shrinks behind them. _Had it not been for her, I would have never chased the treasure._

_And her death demands Templar gold._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my mind, the "Panamanian galleon wreck" that Mason refers to (from a cut line in the early _National Treasure_ draft) is loosely based on the _Nuestra Señora de Atocha_ , one of [a fleet of Spanish galleons (all with large amounts of treasure](http://www.melfisher.org/1622.htm) from Spanish ports in Panama and Columbia aboard) that sank off the Florida Keys in 1622.
> 
> Another great resource I stumbled across in the writing of this fic: [this article by Harvard University's Declaration Resources Project](https://declaration.fas.harvard.edu/blog/facts-nationaltreasure) which fact-checks many of the historical references in _National Treasure_. (In this chapter, I referenced it specifically for the period accuracy of iron gall ink use and how many Freemasons did and might have signed the Declaration.)
> 
> I only name-dropped Thomas McKean here, but you're welcome to read [the National Park Service's biographical sketch on him](https://www.nps.gov/parkhistory/online_books/declaration/bio30.htm) (and other signers of the Declaration).


	3. In which Hannibal makes at least two stupid decisions.

**_Washington, D.C._ **

> **_From:_ ** _margot.verger@archives.gov_
> 
> **_Subject:_ ** _FWD: National Archives 70th Anniversary Gala!_
> 
> _… And yes, you’re invited, so you_ have _to come. Please. I’m begging you. Plus, you still owe me a drink for the last fundraiser when you left me to correct that idiot donor who thought Francis Bacon wrote “The Star-Spangled Banner” during the Civil War._
> 
> **_One (1) attachment:_ ** _ Natl-Archives-70-invite.pdf_

Will rubs his temples and stares at the glaringly white square of the email on his monitor. It had been lying in wait in his inbox when he got into the office early Monday morning, but he hadn’t bothered to read it until now. Honestly, he’d hoped it would vanish by the time he got back from lunch.

Not that he doesn’t like Margot; on the contrary, she is his best and only friend at the National Archives. But parties — _particularly_ black-tie affairs, _especially_ work events — are not where he wants to be on a Friday night, or any night of the week. Parties require him to be sociable, or make an attempt at it, and there _is_ a reason he spends more time around historical documents than people.

Will clicks the attachment out of morbid curiosity, and the official invitation downloads and opens, covering his screen in a dazzling dark blue background and elegant white font overlaying a photograph of the Archives at night. It’s a nice invitation, but he thinks it would look even nicer if the line about employee attendance being “strongly recommended” was omitted.

A _ping_ heralds a calendar alert, and Will is all too happy to switch back to his email and see what it is. It’s a reminder for _Dr. Fell w/ inquiry_ at one o’clock — which is, as he realizes when he checks his watch, _now._

Will frowns. He vaguely remembers a phone call from about two hours ago — a woman’s voice, a polite but brief request to talk — and he was so baffled by the call and dying to get an excuse to _not_ look at that damn email that he penciled her in at one without any questions.

In retrospect, he should have asked what this meeting would concern. But then there’s a knock at his door, and it’s much too late to cancel anything.

Will sighs, then shrugs on his suit jacket and tugs his shirt collar away from his neck. “Come in,” he calls.

The door is opened by a tall, well-built man with silvery-brown hair, wearing a navy blazer with a grey henley underneath. The woman following him is in a rust-colored plaid cardigan and slacks, with black hair rolled at her chin in a vaguely vintage style. They carry themselves with a quiet, collected ease — unlike the other preening, pompous D.C. academics that Will usually gets in his office.

Will stands and walks around his desk to greet them. “I’m Dr. Will Graham,” he says, shaking the man’s hand, then the woman’s. (He leaves out his official job title; the plaque reading _Charters of Freedom Custodian_ on his door is large enough to be read from down the hall.)

The man smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and shakes his hand firmly. “Dr. Roman Fell,” he says, with an accent that Will can’t identify.

The woman returns his handshake with a cool, steady gaze. “Shikibu,” she says. “Dr. Fell’s research assistant.”

(Will recognizes her voice from the phone. _Well, that’s_ one _mystery solved_.)

“Good to meet you both. You can, uh, sit down there.” Will gestures to the chairs in front of his desk as he heads back to his seat. “What can I help you —?” His sentence trails off as he sees Dr. Fell lean in towards the display case on the mantle of the empty fireplace. “Please don’t touch those!”

“Apologies. I was just admiring your collection.” Dr. Fell turns from the case and takes the chair beside his assistant. “George Washington’s campaign buttons. All save the 1789 Pater Patriae.”

 _As if I needed reminding._ “I don’t suppose you’re here to see me about completing my collection?” Will asks archly.

“Unfortunately not.” Dr. Fell’s good humor fades as he fold his hands over his knees. “I’d better cut to the chase, Dr. Graham. We’re here because someone’s going to steal the Declaration of Independence.”

Will blinks. “ _What?_ ” is all he can say.

“Someone’s going to steal the Declaration of Independence,” Dr. Fell repeats.

Will sinks into his desk chair and rubs his chin. _So it’s going to be_ this _kind of “academic.”_ “I… think I better put you two in touch with the FBI,” he says slowly, reaching for the phone.

“We’ve already called a member of the Art Crime Team,” Dr. Fell replies. “And he assured us the Declaration could not possibly be stolen.”

Will smiles tightly. “Well, they’re right.”

“My assistant and I would beg to differ,” Dr. Fell says. “However, if we were given the privilege of examining the document, we would be able to tell you for certain if the Declaration was in any danger.”

Will suppresses a sigh and takes his hand away from the phone. _This should be good._ “What do you _think_ you’d find?”

“An encryption,” Dr. Fell says. “Of a cartograph.”

“A map?” Will asks incredulously. “A map of _what_?”

Dr. Fell pauses for a moment. “The location of items of historic and intrinsic value,” he says carefully.

Will briefly closes his eyes so that his visitors can’t see him rolling them. “A treasure map.”

“ _That_ is where we lost Special Agent Zeller,” Shikibu mutters.

Will stares at them both. “You’re treasure hunters,” he says flatly. _What does Dr. Fell even have a PhD in, anyway? Does he have one at all?_

Dr. Fell shrugs; if he’s aware of Will’s skepticism, he’s politely ignored it. “I prefer to think of myself as a treasure protector.”

Will exhales and props his elbows up on his desk. “Dr. Fell,” he says. “I’ve seen the Declaration of Independence many times, and there’s nothing on the back except a notation that reads ‘The Original Declaration of Independence’ —”

“— ‘July 4th, 1776,’” Dr. Fell finishes smoothly. “Have you ever handled the document personally?”

“No,” Will says, an edge to his voice. “No one touches it; it’s hermetically sealed in a bulletproof thermopane case.”

Dr. Fell studies him for a moment. His eyes are a warmly golden, almost red shade of hazel. “That must frustrate you,” he says. “Seeing something so precious every day and not being able to touch it.”

Will ducks his head to avoid the prolonged eye contact and refocuses. “Well, I touch the _case_ every day,” he says. “It’s closer than most people will ever get to it, so that makes me the expert about whether or not there’s a map on the back. Which there isn’t,” he adds pointedly.

“That’s because it’s invisible,” Dr. Fell says.

“Is it?” Will remarks dryly.

“Invisible inks were not uncommon at that time, particular for use in espionage,” Dr. Fell returns. “Spies on both sides of the Revolutionary War used inks made of ferrous sulfate, lime juice, vinegar: anything acidic.” He leans back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Or the parchment of the Declaration could have been palimpsest. Animal-skin paper was time-consuming to make, so —”

“— it would often be cleaned and reused, yes,” Will finishes irritably, though he’s grudgingly impressed that Dr. Fell has attempted to rationalize this wild story with historically accurate details. “I know what palimpsest is.”

Dr. Fell smiles. “Of course you do.” His words aren’t condescending, but they’re a little more... _familiar_ than Will is comfortable with.

Will clears his throat. “So, Dr. Fell, do you have any proof of this map, which is invisible for _some_ reason or other?”

“It was alluded to in an engraving on an eighteenth-century meerschaum pipe, potentially owned by a Freemason,” Dr. Fell supplies.

“Ah,” Will says, not quite sure what to make of that. “Can I — _see_ this pipe?”

Dr. Fell and Shikibu exchange a look, then Dr. Fell says, “Unfortunately, the pipe is no longer in our possession.”

Will snorts, but coughs to cover it up. “Did Bigfoot take it?” he asks sarcastically.

There’s an awkward silence for a moment, and then Dr. Fell stands up, straightening his suit jacket. “I won’t take up more of your time,” he says. “Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Graham.”

Will gives him a reluctant smile. “Yep.”

Shikibu rises and leaves first without a word; Dr. Fell gets to the door and then lingers, his gaze returning to the button collection. “It really is a fine collection,” he says. “It must have taken you a long time to hunt down all that history.”

Will nods after a moment. If nothing else, he can appreciate the man’s appreciation. “Got my first one — that’s the monogrammed one, with the linked-states border — from my advisor when I finished grad school,” he says, “It’s taken me nearly ten years to assemble the others.”

Dr. Fell stares at it a little longer, a strange sensitivity in his eyes. “Well,” he finally says, “I hope you find the one you’re looking for sooner than that.”

 

“Dr. Roman Fell?” Chiyoh asks in disbelief.

“It’s an alias I’ve used in the past for professional research,” Hannibal says. “As you know, the family name doesn’t get much respect in the academic community.”

“It is an _obvious_ alias,” Chiyoh says, “and the name of the novelist that was your aunt’s namesake even more so.”

They’ve left the Archives offices the way they came, through the Rotunda for the Charters of Freedom: a neoclassical hall of brown marble and pale stone, with twin murals on the walls above and display cases of documents down below. On a weekday afternoon, the Rotunda is largely deserted of visitors; the largest group is a roving herd of elementary school children shepherded by chaperones.

One of the children wanders over to the case flanked and crowned by Corinthian pillars, leaning over the glass and peering through it curiously. Her long dark hair and floral raincoat makes Hannibal think of Abigail when she was young; he then realizes that he hasn’t called her since his return from the _Charlotte_ expedition.

 _She’s busy with school; she wouldn’t have noticed I was gone_ , he reminds himself. _Or cared._

Chiyoh speaks, bringing him out of his thoughts. “The FBI, and now, Dr. Graham, do not believe us,” she says. “Unfortunate.”

“But understandable,” Hannibal says. “The FBI isn’t going to worry about something they’re sure is safe.”

“And Dr. Graham?” Chiyoh prompts.

Hannibal pauses. He feels as though he should be bothered by Dr. Graham’s implicit rejection of the map’s existence; rather, he finds himself unusually curious about the surly, but knowledgeable young archivist who collected early American campaign buttons. “He knows that such a map could exist,” he finally says. “Just not where we say it is.”

The brunette girl in the floral raincoat runs past them to catch up with her classmates, and Hannibal approaches the display case where she had stood. The Declaration looks every inch its age. Much of the text is faded with time and wear, but the bold script across the top reading _IN CONGRESS, July 4, 1776_ and the more elegantly penned _The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America_ below it is still clear.

Hannibal stares down at it for a long time, as if a map would well up on the page just as clearly. _After centuries of stories of treasure passed down through the Lecter family... the key to it all is three feet in front of me._

“Uncle Robertas once said that of all the ideas that became part of the United States, there’s a line in the Declaration that’s at the heart of all the others,” he says, scanning the document to try and make out the words. “‘ _When a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security._ ’” Hannibal stops, almost tasting the dusty poignancy of the words on his tongue. “People don’t express themselves in that way anymore.”

“You do,” Chiyoh says wryly. “Mason does not strike me as the kind.”

Hannibal almost smiles, but sobers at the mention of Mason. “He is not,” he agrees. “If anything, he is our very own ‘train of abuses and usurpations.’”

Chiyoh makes a noise of agreement. “So,” she says, crossing her arms, “how will _we_ ‘throw off such Government’?”

Hannibal exhales and gives voice to the idea that has been gestating in his mind since the door of Dr. Graham’s office closed behind him.

“We ‘provide new Guards’ for the Declaration,” he says, turning away from the display case. “We steal the Declaration of Independence before Mason does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chiyoh's outfit](https://tvgeektalk.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/Contorno3_small.jpg) is basically her travel outfit in "Contorno"; [Hannibal's outfit](http://68.media.tumblr.com/6207b9aa7aa131499818027be203015b/tumblr_ofg9qodc0u1tdeug4o2_540.jpg) is based off of one of Mads' outfits while he was promoting _Doctor Strange_.
> 
> [Collecting George Washington's inaugural buttons](http://www.georgewashingtoninauguralbuttons.com/) is indeed a thing. In contrast to what I imagine as being Will's first button — the [GWI 4](http://www.georgewashingtoninauguralbuttons.com/the-gw-center-monogram-with-the-linked-states-the-merovingian-3-lily-border/) with the "GW" monogram and the linked-states border, which is very common — the [GWI 19](http://www.georgewashingtoninauguralbuttons.com/gwi-19-the-pater-patriae/) (AKA, the 1789 Pater Patriae) is probably the rarest (and definitely the most valuable) of these buttons.
> 
> Want to learn more about [spy techniques during the American Revolutionary War](http://www.mountvernon.org/george-washington/the-revolutionary-war/spying-and-espionage/spy-techniques-of-the-revolutionary-war/) or how [palimpsest](http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/ancient/creating-a-palimpsest.html) is made? Want to read a [transcript of the Declaration of Independence](https://www.archives.gov/founding-docs/declaration-transcript), or about the making of the [Rotunda murals in the National Archives](https://www.archives.gov/files/publications/prologue/2014/spring/murals.pdf)? Look no further!


	4. In which the heist is planned.

Chiyoh sighs and sits up from the couch. “Hannibal, as your partner and as your friend, I have my doubts that this plan will work.” Her tone is even, but Hannibal has known her long enough to hear the stinging condemnation implicit in her words.

Turning off the stove, Hannibal picks up the two plates of veal marsala and leaves the kitchen for the living room. “But we have to find a way to _make_ it work.”

Evening has fallen on Monday and after stopping at the university library and the grocery store, they are home for the night in Hannibal’s Georgetown apartment. While Hannibal had sautéed garlic and mushrooms for the veal and boiled water for spaghetti, Chiyoh had curled up on the couch with a legal pad, spread out their finds from the library, and started taking notes. Save for the sizzling of the wine in the skillet and the turning of pages, the apartment had been silent for over an hour.

“Have _you_ looked through these?” Chiyoh leans over and grabs a volume that is less of a folio and more of a dictionary. “ _This_ is a near-complete layout of the Archives: everything short of builder’s blueprints. And they have a great deal to say about security.”

“Do tell.” Hannibal transfers one plate to his forearm, moves a stack of books to make space on the coffee table for dinner, and then sets the plates down.

Chiyoh flips back a few pages on her notepad. “In addition to guards and security cameras and a sealed case of bulletproof glass, the Declaration has been closely monitored since 1987 by the Charters Monitoring System. In addition to being able to detect any changes in readability, the CMS is also linked to ultraviolet light filters, heat sensors, and periodic photographic measurement systems within the case.”

“That’s only when the Declaration is on display,” Hannibal says. “What about when it’s not?”

“Worse.” Chiyoh flips forward a page. “At night, it is lowered into a four-foot-thick, steel-plated concrete vault equipped with an electronic combination lock and biometric access-denial systems.”

Hannibal cuts a piece of veal, chewing it thoughtfully. He’d succeeded at cooking an excellent dinner, at least. “That may pose a complication,” he agrees.

Chiyoh snorts quietly. “At this point, I think we could save ourselves this trouble and let Mason steal it, if only to steal it from him.”

“How would Mason steal it?” Hannibal asks. “Or rather, if _you_ were Mason, how would you steal it?”

Chiyoh considers it. Then: “Find a vulnerable point. Or in this case, a point with as little security as possible.” She opens another book at a marked point and leaves it open while she hands him her makeshift bookmark.

Hannibal puts down his fork and takes the paper. It is a tri-folded brochure printed on a deep Prussian blue background; overlaying a photograph of the Archives at night are the words _70th Anniversary Gala_ in elegant white cursive.

“It was outside the door of the office next to Dr. Graham’s,” Chiyoh says. “I should think there would be even _more_ security upstairs due to the high-profile guests, but that could mean less regular security around the vault.”

“It’s this Friday.” Hannibal taps at the printed date. “And Mason _is_ ‘high-profile’; if anyone could attend the gala without suspicion, it would be him.” He reaches for the open book. “What would be his plan to get into the vault, then?”

“Cordell and Dolarhyde’s involvement suggests brute, but efficient force,” Chiyoh says. “And Dolarhyde and Chilton both have experience with surveillance systems; they could hack into and disable the cameras while the others go for the vault.”

Hannibal hums in agreement and tucks the invitation back between the pages, but stops when he sees what the book has opened to.

“Have you considered this as a potential route?” he asks, lifting it up. The page shows two full-color photographs of people in white lab suits bending over a document case; the header reads _The Preservation Room._

Chiyoh nods. “The Declaration would be under slightly less security there, but the problem is getting the document into the Preservation Room — and then getting into the Preservation Room ourselves without encountering security.”

Hannibal picks up his fork and takes another bite of veal (with the spaghetti this time) as he thinks, then swallows. “If the CMS sensors are sensitive enough, we could probably trigger them with only a slight variation in temperature or light,” he says. “Something as simple as a laser pointer, perhaps.”

Chiyoh raises her eyebrows and takes her own plate of veal marsala, balancing it on her lap. “Then how would _you_ gain access to the Preservation Room undetected?”

“Delegation. I would leave deceiving the camera systems to you,” Hannibal says. “As for the access codes, I think that Dr. Graham can help us with that.” _Unknowingly._

Chiyoh thinks it over, twirling some spaghetti around her fork. “And here I believed we could stay within the law for the rest of our lives,” she muses.

Hannibal exhales. “I do not ask much of you, Chiyoh,” he says quietly. “But for the second time in our partnership… I _need_ to ask you to help me finish this. Regardless of the cost.”

Chiyoh meets his gaze with iron eyes. ““You forget, Hannibal: I was your Aunt’s aide and Mischa’s research assistant before I was your partner,” she says firmly. “You are mistaken if you think I will _not_ see this through.”

 

“So do you need a ride to the gala?” Margot licks mustard from her fingers. “Gala starts at seven; I could be at your place by six-thirty.”

Will swallows his bite of corned beef and pastrami. “This is _just_ an offer to carpool, right?” he asks dryly.

Margot snorts and picks up her turkey club from the paper wrapper on the edge of Will’s desk. “Don’t kid yourself; you’re not my type. But —” she takes a bite and continues talking through her mouthful “— if we _do_ arrive together —”

Will chuckles. “Knew this just wasn’t about making sure I get to the gala.”

“Well, all those politicians and philanthropists haven’t been able to catch a hint yet,” Margot says, chewing viciously. “If they’re _that_ desperate for the Verger fortune, they should propose to Mason.”

Will’s mirth fades at Margot’s unusually grim expression. “He’s not going to be at the gala, is he?” he asks.

Margot shrugs and swallows. “He called me a couple of days ago to say he was in town and that he _might_ drop in at some point.” She puts down her sandwich again, shredding a corner of the uneaten bread between her fingers. “I don’t think he will; I don’t think he’s even in town. He just _loves_ to make me look over my shoulder.” Her words are light, but her tone is deeply bitter.

Will nods. “Pick me up tonight, then,” he says. “That way if he _does_ show his face, I can punch it again.”

Margot throws her head back and cackles. “Get in line. I get the first shot.” She pulls out some of the turkey and cheese filling from her sandwich, rolls it up, and eats it as finger food. “Speaking of gala guests, do you think that treasure hunter — protector — _whoever_ that showed up in your office Monday is going to be there?”

Will frowns. “Why would he be?”

“That woman you said was his research assistant? I think I saw her take one of the gala brochures from my door.”

“Huh.” Will keeps eating his Reuben, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

Margot fixes him with a knowing look. “Is there any other reason he would be there?”

Will sighs irritably. “Maybe.” He puts down his sandwich on his desk and pulls out an envelope and a small red jewelry box from underneath a pile of paperwork in the desk corner. “These were in my office when I came back with our lunches.”

Margot snatches the envelope, opens it up, and takes out the stationary inside. “Nice handwriting,” she remarks, and then assumes a snooty tone and reads it aloud. “‘My family once hunted this treasure, too, and now I can think of no one better to protect it. Thank you for listening. Regards, Dr. Roman Fell.’” She looks up incredulously. “Christ, what’s in that box, the Heart of the Ocean?”

Will wordlessly opens it and turns it around so she can see it. It is a silver button with an engraved bust of George Washington; Will doesn’t even have to look at the Latin inscription underneath to identify it.

Margot gapes. “Is that —?”

“— the 1789 Pater Patriae, yeah.” Will carefully lifts up the button from its cushion with the hand that’s not sticky with thousand-island dressing. He _should_ be wearing gloves, but he still can’t believe that he’s handling the button in the first place. “Dr. Fell took an unusual interest in my button collection.”

“‘Unusual’ doesn’t even cut it.” Margot peers at the button, astounded. “Didn’t you find one of these at auction last year for what, five thousand?”

“ _Way_ more than that by the time bidding was done, but yeah.” Will puts the button back in the box and closes the lid. “What kind of person, let alone what kind of academic, has rare campaign buttons of Washington’s lying around, anyway?”

“Besides you, you mean?” Margot says wryly.

Will gives her an exasperated look.

Margot just laughs and picks out more filling from her sandwich. “Why are you so concerned about who he is and why he’s giving you this, anyway? I’d have thought you’d be happy to complete your button collection.”

Will opens his mouth and then closes it. Margot has a point; he _should_ be happy about this. But he can’t help but wonder about Dr. Fell — or the cause that brought him to his office in the first place, however crazy and implausible that cause was.

The phone on his desk rings. Will wipes off the dressing on his hand with a napkin and reaches for the phone, checking the caller I.D.: judging by the extension, someone in the preservation labs.

Will steels himself and answers the phone. “Will Graham.”

“Hi, Dr. Graham, it’s Georgia Madchen down in Preservation. Hope I didn’t catch you during lunch.”

Will glances at his half-eaten Reuben. If it was anyone else, he would have responded snarkily, but Georgia was new and she didn’t have the same aversion to him that the rest of the staff did. _Yet._

“No,” he says. “No, you didn’t. What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a CMS alert. Heat sensor in the Declaration case spiked. We were going to pull the Charters anyway because of the gala tonight, but do you want us to bring the Declaration down a little early?”

 _Someone’s going to steal the Declaration of Independence._ Dr. Fell’s words echo unbidden in his head. _If we were given the privilege of examining the document, we would be able to tell you for certain if the Declaration was in any danger._

Will huffs. _Nothing’s going to happen to the Declaration. Not on my watch._

“Yeah, bring it down and run full diagnostics; change out the sensors if need be,” he says. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He hangs up without waiting for Georgia’s response.

Margot’s eyebrows arch. “Problem with the Charters?”

“Temperature change in the Declaration case.” Will wraps up his sandwich for later and then stands up. “I need to go downstairs and check it out.”

“Want me to go with you?” Margot asks. “I do the talking, you do the pointing and scowling?”

Will smiles despite himself. “Please.” He grabs his office key and heads for the door. He passes the button collection on the mantle, with the gap in the velvet lining where the 1789 inaugural would fit in, and again, he thinks of Dr. Fell.

“You ever wonder if there’s something on the Declaration that might have been overlooked?” he asks suddenly. “Something about the material or the ink used.”

“Something like what?” Margot joins him at the door, leaving the carcass of her sandwich on his desk.

“Could be palimpsest,” Will suggests. “Imagine what the Declaration could have been written over, Margot. I mean, everything we know about Archimedes’ early works comes from palimpsest overlooked for centuries.”

Margot scrutinizes him for a moment, and she looks as though she’s actually considering it. Then: “If you’re looking for a new grant proposal, I don’t think the committee’s going to buy that. History Channel might.” She reaches for the doorknob. “But, hey: it’s a thought.”

Will nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Just a thought.”

He still can’t say that he actually believes Dr. Fell’s theory. But he’s beginning to get a better idea of what kind of person would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured that [veal marsala](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/giada-de-laurentiis/veal-marsala-recipe-1915393) would be easy enough to make for an AU Hannibal where he's not a cannibal chef while still being sorta pretentious. And delicious.
> 
> Thank God for the National Archives telling me just about everything I will ever need to know about the [Declaration of Independence's history](https://www.archives.gov/founding-docs/declaration-history).


	5. In which the heist goes smoothly.

Hannibal straightens his bow tie in the service bathroom mirror. The tuxedo looks surprisingly nice, considering it had previously been crumpled and creased underneath a faded janitor’s suit that was a bit too large for him. But however unflattering the disguise had been, it _had_ gotten him through security at the Archives’ employee entrance without a second glance.

While he sifts through his discarded tool belt — another necessary component of the disguise — Hannibal tests his earpiece. “Chiyoh, can you hear me?”

“I can.” Chiyoh’s usually quiet voice comes through loud and clear within his ear. “Are you inside?”

“Yes.” Hannibal pulls out a plastic bag of his own gadgets from within the rubber gloves. “Thank you for procuring the outfit, and doctoring the identification badge. They would have held up to scrutiny if there had been any.”

A soft snort. “That is the lightest that security will be in there.”

“I know.” Hannibal stows his tools inside the lining pockets of his jacket. “How’s the view from the cameras?”

“Predictable and uneventful,” Chiyoh says. “Give the word when you want the feed to stay that way.”

 

The National Archives 70th Anniversary Gala is elegant, tasteful, perfectly planned, and, as Will is coming to realize, a much worse work event to attend than he’d ever thought possible. Money, old and new, is in the aria spun out by the string quartet in the corner, in the catered hors d'oeuvres on the tables dotting the Rotunda, in the tailored tuxedos and designer gowns that probably cost what he made in a year, and in his old grey suit, with no drink and little appreciation for classical music, Will feels particularly out-of-place.

It hasn’t stopped people from trying to talk to him, however. Margot had been with him earlier, and she had done an excellent job of warding away fellow co-workers on their second or third glass of wine, or senators wanting to discuss the Archives budget; both had been equally insufferable. But Margot was off chatting up some ambassador and his wife, and he had retreated to the Charters of Freedom cases to get at least a little outside of the pressing mass of people.

Will rubs his temples and wishes he had some aspirin. _Or a few fingers of whiskey. Or both; both would be good._

“In need of a drink?”

Will turns around, briefly taken aback to see Dr. Fell standing there, holding two flutes of champagne.

Champagne is far from Will’s favorite beverage, but at this point, he’ll take any alcohol he doesn’t have to pay for. “Thanks,” he says shortly, taking the drink. “What are you doing here?”

Dr. Fell raises his eyebrows.

Will bites his tongue and tries again. “What I meant is that I — I don’t remember seeing your name on the guest list.”

“I’m afraid I was a late addition.” Dr. Fell takes a sip of his own champagne. “I made a generous donation and the financial office thought to invite me to the gala as repayment.”

“Ah,” Will says, not really knowing what else to say. “Well, thanks. And —” he takes a sip of the champagne and tries not to grimace “— thank you for your, uh, other gift. To me.”

Dr. Fell’s eyes brighten. “So you did receive it?”

Will silently congratulates himself on steering this conversation away from the edge he’d pushed it to. “Yeah, this morning,” he says. “Out of curiosity, where did you find it? The 1789 Pater Patriae is easily one of the rarest, if not _the_ rarest, of Washington’s campaign buttons.”

“I inherited it,” Dr. Fell says, “from a family member who discovered it on a dig in Maryland.” He smiles, more to himself than to Will. “It was her first archaeological find beside broken china, and she was so excited, she drove back home to show us.”

Will thinks of the button, now sitting in the formerly empty space in the velvet-lined case on his office mantle. He had almost been feeling guilty about accepting it before, but Dr. Fell’s story is making him feel like more of a selfish dick.

Almost.

“It’s… extraordinary,” he says. “And something I wouldn’t have accepted under normal circumstances.”

“Are these abnormal circumstances, then?” Dr. Fell asks lightly.

“Yeah, definitely,” Will retorts. “It’s not every week someone walks into my office to warn me that the Declaration of Independence is going to be stolen because of the invisible treasure map on the back, and then gifts me a five-figure Washington inaugural button to complete my collection.”

Dr. Fell pauses. “When you put it like that…” he muses.

“Well, it _is_ what happened,” Will says dryly.

Dr. Fell nods, his expression more thoughtful. “I’d hoped to leave you with a better impression of me than the one I arrived with,” he says, his words measured. “And it seemed to me that you would uniquely appreciate the button — more than I once did — so I thought it a fitting gift.”

Will frowns. _“More than I once did”?_ “You weren’t always interested in American history?” he asks.

“Not always, no. I only completed my Master’s five years ago.” Dr. Fell smiles ruefully. “Now I have two doctorates and no job.”

Now it’s Will’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “What was your first one in?”

“Medicine. I worked as a trauma surgeon, then a psychiatrist in Baltimore for quite some time.” Dr. Fell sips his champagne, almost delicately so. “If you don’t mind my asking, Dr. Graham, how long have you been at the Archives?”

Will blinks in surprise _(Trauma surgeon? Psychiatrist? Who the hell_ is _this guy?)_ but recovers. “Uh, since I got out of my graduate program. Not at this job, though,” he amends at seeing Dr. Fell’s impressed look. “I started out as an archivist, but the previous Charters Custodian retired and I guess he liked my work enough to put my name forward for an interview.”

“Just your work?” Dr. Fell asks.

Will sighs and drinks the champagne; it still tastes awful, but it’s starting to grow on him. “Fortunately, my technical competence weighed out my personality in the hiring process,” he says wryly. “It’s no secret that I’m not the most sociable or likeable person at the Archives.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Dr. Fell says.

Will almost snorts, but then he realizes that Dr. Fell looks absolutely serious.

“You’re… very polite to say so,” he manages.

“While rudeness is intolerable to me, I assure you, I am not merely being polite,” Dr. Fell says. “Truth be told, I find you very interesting, Dr. Graham.”

Will processes that for a moment — or tries to, anyway. Again, Dr. Fell sounds completely earnest, and it’s a change of pace from what he’s used to, especially at these work events.

He just can’t decide if that’s refreshing or worrying.

“Just ‘Will’ is fine, Doctor,” he finally says. “The title adds to the impression of flattery.”

Dr. Fell smiles. “Just ‘Will,’ then,” he says.

“Will!”

Will cranes his head just in time to see Margot break away from the crowd, trying to keep two more flutes of champagne steady while managing her full tulle skirt. He lifts up a hand in greeting.

“Figured I’d find you outside of the masses and in dire need of a free drink.” Margot offers him one of the flutes, then her eyes go to the one already in his hand. “Or maybe just outside the masses.”

“Not even,” Will says, inclining his head towards Dr. Fell. “No offense, but even a company of _one_ in an event like this —” _Why am I apologizing?_

“None taken.” Dr. Fell’s smile remains, but there is a strange and keen glint in his eye. “Might I get an introduction?”

“Right.” Will gestures with his free hand to Margot. “Dr. Fell, Dr. Margot Verger. Margot, Dr. Roman Fell.”

“Records of Rights Custodian here at the Archives, if you want to get even _more_ formal,” Margot adds. “I’d shake your hand, but —” She nods at the champagne in her hands.

“A problem easily solved.” Dr. Fell reaches over and plucks Will’s half-empty flute from his grasp. “Now our mutual friend can have another drink.”

Will’s not about to dwell on Dr. Fell’s strange behavior, not when the hastily gulped, godawful champagne is finally kicking in. He holds out his hand to Margot.

Margot hands the champagne to Will without breaking eye contact with Dr. Fell. “So you’re Will’s mysterious button benefactor,” she comments. “Are you an academic?”

“Not one of note,” Dr. Fell replies. “You, on the other hand, are very much noteworthy, Dr. Verger. Your paper on Boston marriages and queer erasure in contemporary American history studies is an astounding work.”

“Well, it certainly astounded my would-be thesis advisor,” Margot says airily, though a faint flush has come into her cheeks. “But thank you for the praise.” She takes a sip of champagne. “So, what are you doing here tonight, Dr. Fell? Protecting the Declaration from treasure-hunting thieves?”

Will nearly chokes on his champagne, but then swallows and glances over quickly at the Declaration’s case. The real deal is downstairs in Preservation, but the replica on display for tonight certainly looks close enough to it.

_Whether it has the same properties, though…_

Thankfully, Dr. Fell accepts the jab with grace. “I will confess, I find myself drawn to the Declaration recently,” he says. “Time has changed it not only physically, but perceptually. Today, we point to its statements as fact, but then, they were radical, treasonous. Had the war been lost, the signers would have assuredly been subjected to the harshest punishments the British could devise: hanging, beheading, drawing and quartering, and of course, disembowelment and immolation.”

“... Of course,” Will says, still not sure of the direction this speech is taking.

Dr. Fell raises his glass — his own glass, not Will’s. “Tonight, we are here to celebrate not only the continued preservation of these historic documents, but the ideas within them. So let us toast the men who did what was considered wrong in order to do what they knew was right.”

Seemingly impressed, Margot clinks her glass against his; after a moment, Will shrugs and follows. The three of them drink, Will downing his whole flute in one gulp. It still tastes foul, but he doesn’t care so much anymore.

Margot glances up from inside her glass, eyes darting somewhere behind him. “Heads up, Will. Krendler’s here, and he does _not_ look happy.”

“Jesus Christ.” _Probably heard about the Declaration sensor and is looking for someone to blame..._ Will glances around for the closest exit and finds it: the hallway leading to the members’ coatroom. “I’m going into hiding; come and find me once he’s off the warpath.” He nods at Dr. Fell. “Talk to you later.”

Dr. Fell smiles, and his eyes become warm again. “I’ll hold you to that.”

 

Margot waits until Dr. Graham’s out of sight before turning to Hannibal, the hardness returning to her gaze. “If you’re trying to keep a low profile, you should have picked a more generic alias, Dr. _Lecter_ ,” she remarks drolly. “Although, out of all the manipulative assholes I could have encountered at this gala, my former therapist is the best-case scenario.”

“A delight to see you again, Margot.” Hannibal sips on his champagne, balancing the base of Will’s glass on his fingertips. “I take it Mason’s not in attendance?”

“Thank God for small favors.” Margot flips her hair over her shoulder and scans the crowd behind her. “But if you’re here, he’s not far behind.”

“Likely, but not in the sense you’re thinking of.” Hannibal pauses, reading the tightness of Margot’s mouth and the narrowing of her eyes. “Mason and I are no longer working together, Margot.”

Margot turns her head and gives him a cold look. “Is that supposed to make me feel better about you working together in the first place?” she demands. “When you knew damn well the hell he put me through?”

“It should not,” Hannibal agrees. “Mistakes... _were_ made.”

“By _you_ ,” Margot mutters, gulping the rest of her champagne.

“And mistakes will continue to be made: by your brother, this time,” Hannibal continues. “I’m here tonight to stop him from making them.”

Margot scoffs. “What kinds of mistakes?”

Hannibal leans in. “How much did Dr. Graham tell you about my visit on Monday?”

Margot stares at him for a long moment. Then: “ _Mason’s_ going to try to steal the Declaration of Independence?”

Hannibal nods.

“Because — and I _can’t_ believe I’m saying this, but — he believes there’s an invisible treasure map on the back?”

Hannibal nods again.

Margot exhales. “Forget Will; you should have come to me and led with that.”

“You _were_ my first choice, but I thought that your anger towards me would cloud your judgment.”

Margot gives him a sour smile. “Amazing what spite can do to clear it.” She rolls the stem of her champagne flute between her fingers. “And you think he’s going to try tonight?”

“You know he will.”

“What’s your plan then?”

Hannibal hesitates. Out of the corner of his eye, up high on the ceiling, a spherical black camera is just within view.

“It’s best if you don’t know,” he says. “Just in case.” Hannibal inclines his head and starts to walk away from her. “Enjoy your night, Margot.”

Suddenly, Margot catches him by the arm. He stills and waits.

“I’m curious,” Margot says. “How exactly did you and Mason part ways?”

“Poorly,” Hannibal says crisply. “He left me and my friend to die in a shipwreck full of eighteenth-century gunpowder about to explode.”

Margot smirks, but her eyes are steely. “Good.” She lets go; her nails leave indents in his jacket. “Now you know as well as I do that Mason can’t be trusted.”

 

“I assume Margot is Mason’s D.C. connection,” Chiyoh says as soon as Hannibal enters the men’s bathroom.

“Most likely.” Hannibal enters the largest stall at the very end, closes the door behind him, and then drops the changing table down from the wall.

“Is there a chance she could be helping him?”

“If she had her way, she wouldn’t.” Hannibal drinks the rest of the champagne in Will’s glass, then takes out a plastic bag from his pocket and puts the glass inside. “But Margot doesn’t get her way with Mason.”

“An unwilling accomplice,” Chiyoh muses. “Not unlike Dr. Graham.”

“Will is an un _witting_ accomplice.” Hannibal takes out a tube of superglue, a vial of iodine, and a cotton ball from his pocket. He uncaps the containers and squeezes a small amount of glue into the bag, then soaks the cotton ball with iodine and adds it to the bag. “Margot may resent the part she plays, but she knows she’s playing. Will doesn’t know at all.” He seals the bag, puts the iodine and the glue back in his pocket, and takes out a thumb cut off a latex glove.

“He will know soon,” Chiyoh says ominously. “And he will suspect you.”

“Oh?” As Hannibal watches, the inside of the bag begins to smoke red, and patches of the glass darken into smudged, but distinctive fingerprints.

Chiyoh sighs. “You _were_ the one who told him. And he has seen you at the gala,” she says. “And you gave him Mischa’s button.”

Hannibal doesn’t respond. He slides the portion of the glove over his thumb, and then carefully removes the glass from the plastic bag. He finds Will’s thumbprint and presses his covered thumb to it. It comes away with a satisfying imprint.

Thankfully, Chiyoh has an equal desire to not continue with that strand of conversation. “Do you have the fingerprint?”

“Yes.” Hannibal drops the bag and its contents into the trash bin, puts up the changing table, and then leaves the stall. “Tell me where the elevator is.”

“Take a right out of the bathroom and go to the end of the hall.”

Hannibal follows her directions, exiting the bathroom and walking past the doorway that leads back to the Rotunda. The staff elevator is only a few steps away; instead of a call button, there is a fingerprint scanner.

Hannibal checks to ensure he is alone in the hallway, then presses his gloved thumb to the scanner.

After a moment, a message flashes on the display beside it — _Graham, Will: ACCESS GRANTED —_ and with a _ding,_ the embossed elevator doors slide open.

Letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, Hannibal steps inside and hits the button labeled _-3_ : the floor for the Preservation Room. The doors close.

“I’m in the elevator,” he says, stripping the glove from his thumb. He pulls out a new set of gloves — whole, this time — and puts them on.

“I will turn off the surveillance cameras,” Chiyoh says.

Hannibal stares idly at the wood paneling inside the elevator and waits. The elevator descends steadily and quietly.

Then: “They are off,” Chiyoh reports.

Another _ding_ , and the elevator stops and the doors open. Hannibal steps out.

“You are in the vault hallway,” Chiyoh says. “The Preservation Room is through the first door on your left.”

The door is hard to miss: massive, either metal-plated or solid metal. There is a monitor and a keyboard beside it, the latter of which slides out at Hannibal’s approach.

From his pocket, Hannibal takes out a UV penlight and shines it on the keyboard. The ink he’d dipped the campaign button in had held up well; under the light, Will’s fingerprints show up vividly green on the keys: _a, e, f, g, l, o, r, v, y._

 _A simple password, then._ Hannibal runs through the letters in his mind, combining and recombining them. _Something significant, something relevant… to his job, to his interests, to American history..._

“I can run the letters through an anagram finder,” Chiyoh offers.

“No need.” Hannibal carefully types in his final string of reordered letters —   _v-a-l-l-e-y-f-o-r-g-e —_ and then hits the button to submit it. _Dr. Graham’s admiration for George Washington is noticeable._

The monitor beeps, again showing the message _Graham, Will: ACCESS GRANTED_ , and the door slides open.

Hannibal steps inside the Preservation Room. It looks just as it did in the photographs: all white, all stainless steel, clinically sterile and austere. A glass-paneled room within dominates the lab’s center, with an examination table inside of it and a boxy object draped in cloth on top of that.

Hannibal hurries to the door of the glass room, opens it, and pulls the cloth off the object within. It is the case of the Declaration of Independence, and the document is still inside.

“It’s here,” he says. He drops the UV penlight back in his pocket and takes out a portable screw gun. He turns it on and starts loosening the bolts in the underside of the case, wincing slightly at the loud sound. “Is the hallway still clear, Chiyoh?”

No sound but a faint static crackling.

Hannibal pauses. “Chiyoh?” he asks again.

“I just lost the feed.”

Hannibal switches off the screw gun. “ _What?_ ”

“I lost the feed,” Chiyoh repeats. Even through the earpiece, Hannibal can hear her frantically tapping on her keyboard. “I cannot see anything or anyone, Hannibal. You need to get out. _Now_.”

Hannibal reacts immediately. Stashing the screw gun away, he grips the edge of the Declaration case and lifts it off the table, holding it close to his body. It’s a little heavy, but it’s nothing he can’t handle for a few feet.

“Where are you now?” Chiyoh asks.

“Returning to the elevator.” He slips through the glass door within the Preservation Room, and the metal door opens at his approach. Checking the hallway, Hannibal heads for the elevator.

“And the Declaration?”

Hannibal presses the call button with his foot. “I have the whole case; I’ll get the Declaration out once I’m inside.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when there’s a _crash_ behind him. Hannibal turns around to see that, at the very end of the vault hallway, a service door has been thrown open, its handle broken.

Four figures dressed in black with balaclavas covering their faces and duffle bags slung over their shoulders emerge. They start down the hallway in haste, and then stop in their tracks, staring straight at Hannibal.

The one furthest ahead saunters forward. Hannibal instinctively tightens his grip around the Declaration case.

“Quite the cat burglar _you_ are, Dr. Lecter,” Mason chortles. “How many of those nine lives did you use to get out of that explosion, anyway?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features art by [carrioncrowned](https://carrioncrowned.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, which you can also see [here](https://78.media.tumblr.com/4b8700575d8fffa525b3734668d93b78/tumblr_oxwrt0hqoB1vvic2no2_1280.png)!
> 
> While researching how to lift fingerprints, I stumbled across [this Prezi presentation](https://prezi.com/tr9jhi26b1pj/forensic-science-in-the-media/) analyzing _National Treasure_ 's iodine-and-super-glue method. Unsurprisingly, the movie makes this method look a lot easier, faster, and more accurate than it actually is.


	6. In which the heist doesn't go smoothly.

Two things happen before Hannibal can answer.

The first is that the tallest of the four figures steps out from behind Mason, raises a silenced pistol, and starts firing. Without thinking, Hannibal raises the case, and the bullets _crack_ against the glass protecting the Declaration, but don’t shatter it.

The second is that the elevator opens with a barely audible _ding._ The force of the bullets against Hannibal’s makeshift shield drives him back into the elevator. Hannibal immediately ducks to one side and hits the button for the first floor.

The gunfire stops and running footfalls approach, but mercifully, the door closes.

Once again Chiyoh’s voice comes clearly through the earpiece. “Was that security or Mason shooting at you?”

“The latter,” Hannibal says. “Although I believe Dolarhyde was doing the shooting.” As he balances the lower edge of the Declaration case on the floor, he can see a single spiderwebbed crack in the glass where his head would have been.

“You still have the Declaration?”

Hannibal takes out the screw gun again and continues loosening and removing the bolts in the case.

Chiyoh seems to take that as a yes. “Has your exit plan changed?”

Hannibal tucks the screw gun away, pries open the top half of the case, and slowly slides out the bed that the Declaration rests on.

Chiyoh’s sigh is thunderous in the earpiece. “Do I need to move the van?”

“Ah, no. I’ll still exit the way I came in.” Removing a cylindrical document sleeve from his pocket, Hannibal rolls up the Declaration and inserts it into the plastic, then ties the sleeve at the end. “However, starting the engine would be a good idea.”

The elevator doors begin to slide open. Hannibal straightens up and tucks the Declaration inside his tuxedo jacket, and then nudges the empty, bullet-riddled case off to the side of the elevator. He strides out and back down the hall, glancing instinctively into the Rotunda as he passed.

Hannibal catches sight of a familiar head of barely tamed curls and his sure stride falters. Will is worryingly close to the entrance; fortunately, he seems to be arguing with a man with a tanned bald spot and a sneer like a hyena’s, and has not noticed Hannibal.

_Yet._

Will turns away in disgust and Hannibal quickly moves away from the Rotunda entrance. He ducks into the first open doorway he sees, which he realizes belatedly is the National Archives gift shop. The souvenirs, admittedly, are less tacky than those in most other gift shops, but they pale in comparison to the well-dressed and well-connected of Washington browsing through them.

Outside, Will stalks down the hallway and out of sight. Hannibal turns to leave.

“Sir. Sir!”

On the off-chance that the interjection is directed to him, Hannibal pauses.

It is the cashier, a young woman with a dirty blonde ponytail that draws his attention to her protruding ears. “Sir,” she repeats. “You need to pay for that.”

Hannibal glances down. The Declaration of Independence, protected only by a flimsy sleeve, is protruding from inside his jacket.

He looks up at the cashier to respond, but then sees the basket by the register, full of identical plastic-wrapped rolls of paper. _Actual Sized Declaration of Independence Replicas_ , the sign perched on the edge reads.

“My apologies,” he says, summoning a smile as he approaches. “A guest told me that there were souvenirs being given to major donors to thank them for their contributions, but I suppose now he had a few too many glasses of wine, saw there was no price on the sign, and came to his own conclusions.”

The cashier smiles back. “Can’t say that it’s the first time,” she says ruefully. “It’s nine ninety-nine, by the way. If you wanted to buy it.”

Hannibal considers his options. It’s a small price to pay for getting out undetected. And besides his fake identification badge, Hannibal has a very creased fifty in his pocket: more than enough to cover that and sales tax.

And now, she’s given him an idea.

Hannibal places the Declaration on the counter with care, and the cashier turns it over. Her polite smile now turns to a frown.

“Is something the matter?” Hannibal asks.

“There’s no barcode on the wrapping,” the cashier says apologetically. “Just let me grab another so I can scan that one instead.”

Hannibal holds up a hand. “Allow me,” he says. “I’ve already put you through enough trouble tonight.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” the cashier starts to say, but Hannibal has already left, grabbed a replica Declaration, and returned.

“In fact, I’ll take both of these,” Hannibal says, placing the fake Declaration — barcode up — on the counter beside the real one. “My sister would love one of her own.”

Despite her protests, the cashier looks noticeably relieved as she scans the replica Declaration twice and carefully slides both rolls of paper into a plastic bag. “That’ll be twenty dollars, ninety-three cents,” she says. “With tax.”

Hannibal smiles again, for good measure, and hands over his fifty.

Will has been ready to leave long before now, but getting ambushed and argued at (not ‘with’: ‘ _at_ ’) by Krendler is finally pushing him out the door. He’s backtracked to the coatroom and collected his coat, and now he’s trying to find his phone. First, he needs to text Margot and let her know that he’s had about all he can take of the gala and that he’ll take a cab home; next, he needs to see if Peter’s texted any updates, and then tell him that he’s coming home early.

(He’ll still pay him for the hours Peter’s due for watching Winston for the whole night, though; Peter’s the most reliable dogsitter he’s had and Will would hate to lose him. And Winston likes Peter as much as Peter likes Winston _and_ as much as Will likes the both of them, so it works out nicely.)

He’s just found his phone when Will catches a familiar tuxedoed figure out of the corner of his eye. It’s Dr. Fell, striding towards the stairs — but not the stairs to the main entrance, to the employee entrance.

Will frowns and drops his phone back in his pocket. Dr. Fell is, to put it lightly, an incredibly strange man, so maybe this wasn’t unusual after all. However, Dr. Fell is holding his arm in an unusual way: almost like he’s injured it, or like he’s concealing something underneath his jacket. And he’s in a bit more of a rush than the other guests swirling around the hallway.

Curious and a bit perturbed, Will starts to follow him. Once out of the crowd, Dr. Fell moves much faster than he anticipates, and Will has to jog down the stairs to try and keep up. But when he reaches the bottom of the stairwell and the tail end of the security checkpoint for employees, Dr. Fell is nowhere to be seen.

Shrugging on his jacket, Will exits into the cool night. D.C. traffic is a little lighter at this hour, and there are few enough cars passing for him to see a shadow of a figure approaching a red van parked across the street. The figure — recognizable as Dr. Fell in profile — opens the back doors of the van and ducks behind them.

Suspicion building, Will briefly looks both ways, and then races across the street. “Dr. Fell?”

On hearing his name, Dr. Fell reemerges. “Will,” he says, as if surprised. “Are you leaving early as well?”

“Why would I be out here otherwise?” Will responds, a bit more testy than he means to be.

Dr. Fell shrugs elegantly. The moon overhead and the floodlights of the Archives catch the paleness of the roll of paper, plastic-wrapped, in his hands.

A horrible thought begins to creep into Will’s mind. “What’s that?”

“Oh, a souvenir.” Dr. Fell holds the roll in both hands: daintily, reverently. “I didn’t have a chance to peruse the Archives’ excellent gift shop the last time I was here, and I thought now was as good a time as any.”

Suddenly, a loud, brassy alarm begins to ring out from the National Archives.

Will freezes at the sound. He knows that sound, but he didn’t think he’d ever have to hear it outside of a security drill. _Holy shit_ , is all he can think. _Holy_ shit.

Dr. Fell glances over Will’s shoulder, cool and collected, but his grip on the roll tightens slightly.

Will stares at Dr. Fell. _Holy_ fucking _shit._ “You didn’t,” he says. “You did _not._ ”

Dr. Fell opens his mouth.

Will doesn’t give him a chance to defend himself. “Give me that,” he says. “Give me the Declaration, Dr. Fell.”

“Will —” Dr. Fell starts to say.

“ _Dr. Graham_ , to you.” Will snatches the roll of paper — the _Declaration_ , for Chrissakes — from the other man and backs away. “Security!” he yells, keeping his eyes fixed on Dr. Fell. “ _Security!_ Over here!”

There is a screeching of tires, and Will realizes he’s backed right into the street. He half-jumps, half-stumbles out of the way as a catering truck comes to a sudden halt inches from where he’d once stood.

The door of the cab is flung open. Two bulky men dressed in black with balaclavas over their faces get out.

“Give it up,” one of them demands.

Will turns to run, but the taller one cuts him off. He lifts him up off his feet and drags Will, kicking and struggling, around to the back of the truck.

“Will!” Dr. Fell shouts.

As the rattle of gunfire comes from the front, the men in black throw open the back doors and throw Will inside. Will lands on cold metal flooring, scraping his hand; he grits his teeth and hugs the Declaration close to his body.

Behind him, the doors slam and latch. Rough hands come down on Will’s shoulders and drag him to his feet. Now that he’s up, Will can see that there’s two more people in black in the truck. One is an unfamiliar woman with dark wavy hair and a pallid complexion; the other is a man that he’s, unfortunately, all _too_ familiar with.

“Dr. Graham!” Mason crows. “Imagine running into you like this!”

“Imagine,” Will says. His voice comes out flat, his mind trying to catch up with this catastrophe that the night had turned into.

 _“Someone’s going to steal the Declaration of Independence” — that_ was _what Dr. Fell had said,_ he thinks. _He may have stolen it, but I_ don’t _think he was trying to implicate himself initially..._

_… Unless they’re working together._

“I’d rather not have your fists that close to my face,” Mason continues, “so if you could kindly hand over the map to the Templar treasure, we’ll drop you off on the nearest street corner and we all can go about our businesses.”

The truck changes lanes sharply, and everyone in the back stumbles as the hanging pots and pans clang against the sides.

“Who taught _you_ how to drive, Chilton?” one of the men in black behind Will yells up to the front. “Dolarhyde?”

(The other man in black — _Dolarhyde,_ Will assumes — makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a growl.)

“Unlike you, I’ve never driven a catering truck, Cordell,” a snide voice from the front ( _Chilton_ ) shoots back. “And you should thank me for trying to get the good doctor off our tail.”

“I’ll thank you more if you can manage to put him back in some flaming wreckage and make him stay there. Double your pay, even.” Mason turns back to Will and holds out his hand with his best impression of a winning smile. “So! The Declaration.”

Will scoffs. “No.”

“Please? Pretty please?” Mason wheedles. “Pretty please with a cherry on top? Not my sister’s, though,” he adds with a braying laugh.

Will’s jaw tightens and his hands clench into fists. “No,” he repeats.

The truck makes another sharp turn, the tires screeching at the sudden change in direction. Much to his relief, Will can hear sirens in the distance.

Mason shakes his head. “Shame!” he says, still smiling that inane, unhinged smile. “Cordell, Dolarhyde: smash Dr. Graham’s fingers.”

There’s a _crash_ outside, followed by a cracking of glass and a sizzling of electricity. Sparks flare up over the windshield, and the tires have gone from screeching to screaming. The truck rattles and jolts dangerously, sending cooking equipment and Styrofoam containers flying. Mason falls, and his henchpeople latch onto ovens and counters to ride out the rough turn.

Seizing the opportunity, Will dives for the back doors and fumbles with the latch. The latch sticks, but just as the truck skids around another corner, it unlocks.

The doors burst open. Will, clutching the handle with one hand and the Declaration with the other, is flung out with them. Will yelps and hangs on as the door holding him swings back and forth.

Now that he’s outside, Will can see the blurred red mass speeding up behind them: Dr. Fell’s van.

From within the catering truck, bullets whiz past him, peppering the van’s windshield. Heart hammering, Will throws his weight to one side, trying to swing the door out of the line of fire.

(“Idiot!” he hears Mason yell. “If Graham falls, the Declaration falls!”)

Then the van pulls out from behind the truck and into the next lane, and the side door slides open.

“Will!” Dr. Fell leans out, holding out a hand as he grips the door frame.

Will opens his mouth to shout something back, but then the door slams back into place, knocking all the wind out of him. The Declaration falls from his hand.

Mason snatches it up. “I _knew_ we could come to a peaceable solution!”

“Give that back, you son of a —” Will’s words are lost as the truck driver presses down on the gas and the door swings out.

“Will!” Dr. Fell shouts again. “Take my hand!”

Will looks at Dr. Fell’s outstretched hand, illuminated by the traffic lights the two vehicles are hurtling through. Then he looks behind him, at the hulking man in black stalking towards the open doors with a silenced pistol — at Mason _fucking_ Verger, pawing at the plastic around the Declaration of Independence —

A plastic wrapping with a barcode on it.

Will’s hands and fingers are chafing, and the truck door is out as far as it can go. He makes his decision and prays it’s the lesser of two stupid ones.

Will lets go and lets gravity do its work.

He slams into Dr. Fell, and the two of them fall back into the red van as two more bullets break the window just beyond them. Dr. Fell catches the door with his foot and drags it shut.

And then the van careens down a side street, leaving the catering truck — and the majority of the Declaration’s would-be thieves — far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, there is no universe except a Hollywood one where a replica of the Declaration of Independence costs $35.00, even _with_ sales tax. But if anyone's interested, the [National Archives online gift shop](https://www.nationalarchivesstore.org/collections/documents/products/declaration-of-independence-full-size-reproduction) sells them for $9.95, minus shipping and sales tax. 
> 
> (I calculated sales tax as best I could using current [DC tax rates](https://cfo.dc.gov/node/232962). I have no idea why I'm suddenly getting picky about accurate sales taxes in fanfiction.)


	7. In which the FBI gets involved and Will has the worst night of his life.

“Are you all right?” Dr. Fell’s voice is uncomfortably close to his ear.

Will disentangles himself from Dr. Fell, rolls up to a seated position, and tries to catch his breath. “ _No_ ,” he says finally. “No, I’m _not_ ‘all right’! Where’s the Declaration of Independence?”

The driver of the van cranes her head around; Will recognizes Shikibu almost instantly. “I thought _you_ had it.”

“So did I,” Will says tartly. “But _he_ —” he points at Dr. Fell “— gave me a gift shop souvenir.”

Shikibu swivels her head to Dr. Fell. “Then why did we go after him, Hannibal?” she asks pointedly.

Will blinks. “‘Hannibal’?”

Dr. Fell sits up and holds out his hand. “Dr. Hannibal Lecter. And Chiyoh,” he adds, gesturing to the driver. “Apologies for the pseudonyms, but I wanted you to hear us out without hearing our names and all that’s associated with them first.”

Will stares at him, aghast. “ _Lecter_?” he repeats. “The family with the conspiracy theory about the Founding Fathers; _those_ Lecters?”

Shikibu ( _Chiyoh,_ Will corrects) sighs heavily and turns her attention back to the road.

Dr. Fell ( _Lecter_ , Will amends again, _lying Lecter_ ) lowers his hand, but has no other visible reaction. “It’s not a conspiracy theory,” he says calmly. “It’s all quite true. And what I’ve told you about the Declaration is also true.”

“You also said that someone was going to steal the Declaration,” Will says flatly. “Did you mean you, or Mason Verger and his goons?”

Dr. Lecter raises his eyebrows. “So you _do_ know Mason?”

“Mostly by reputation. He’s Margot’s — my co-worker’s — brother, though he doesn’t deserve to be called that,” Will says with a derisive snort.

“Ah,” Dr. Lecter says. “Well, that explains why he was so confident he could steal the Declaration: he had an inside source.”

Will scowls. “One, there’s no way in hell Margot would help Mason willingly. And two, _you_ were the one who stole the Declaration, not Mason!”

“I was,” Dr. Lecter admits. “But only because Chiyoh and I knew Mason was planning to steal it.” He looks straight at Will. “Neither the FBI nor you took our concerns seriously. So, we took matters into our own hands.”

 

For the venue of a major gala, the National Archives has become startlingly quiet. The string quartet had been discreetly advised by a policeman to stop playing for the moment, and the city police and FBI agents had found all the guests and staff and ushered them into the Rotunda. From his position on the marble dais, Jack Crawford sees them all — sees their worry and fear, their frustration and annoyance, their overwhelmingly nosy interest in the whole affair.

All things he didn’t need from them at the moment.

Crawford clears his throat, and the sound echoes in the space. “Listen up!” he says sharply, and all heads turn to him. “I’m Jack Crawford; I’m the agent in charge here. None of you are in danger in any way, but if you all cooperate, we will get through this with as little frustration as possible. The building’s on lockdown, so for now —” he raises his voice to be heard over the sudden rush of murmuring from the crowd “— just stay here until you get the all-clear. Thank you.”

Crawford turns away. The chattering behind him swells, but he ignores it, focusing on the team of agents behind him. “Alright, here’s what we’re doing,” he says. “I’m going to talk to the Archivist and other members of the senior staff. In the meantime, Katz, I want you to get the vault hallway security logs and all the surveillance tapes from the last thirty days. Jimmy, go with the police, get positive IDs on the guests and search everyone; if they refuse, detain them and get warrants. Zee —” He stops, seeing the look of trepidation on the agent’s face. “You have something, Zee?”

Agent Zeller looks distinctly uncomfortable. “I… got a tip on Monday that someone was going to steal the Declaration of Independence,” he mutters.

Agent Katz looks at him incredulously. “You _what?_ ”

“ _Please_ tell us you have a name on the tipster,” Agent Price says.

“ _No,_ Jimmy,” Zeller says irritably. “The guy didn’t give a name, he sounded like a loon, and his information didn’t seem credible. Of _course,_ I didn’t open a file.”

Crawford is not amused. “How about _now?_ ”

 

“For the last time: there is _no_ treasure map on the back of the Declaration of Independence!” Will exclaims. “Not even an _invisible_ one!”

“You seem very confident about that,” Dr. Lecter remarks, squeezing his way into the front passenger seat. “Have you ever heard of the Knights Templar?”

Will groans and rubs his temples. “Okay, no offense — actually, _all_ offense meant — but this isn’t _The Da Vinci Code._ The Knights Templar were a medieval Catholic military order, not treasure hunters or devil worshippers or guardians of the bloodline of Jesus Christ or —”

“You’re right,” Dr. Lecter says. “They were treasure protectors.”

“Just like you?” Will asks sarcastically, leaning on the seat.

Dr. Lecter pauses. “Yes,” he says. “Though it would be more correct to say that _I_ am like _them_.”

Will sighs and crosses his arms. “So tell me,” he says. “In your wildly fantastical view of history, what do the Knights Templar, disbanded over four _centuries_ before the American Revolutionary War, have to do with the Declaration of Independence?”

Taking a wad of something out of his pocket, Dr. Lecter uncrumples it to reveal a one-dollar bill. “See these?” he asks, pointing at the back. “The unfinished pyramid, the all-seeing eye: marks of the Templars.”

Will spares a glance at the money, and then looks at him even more skeptically.

“Our Founding Fathers, the Masons among them, were the descendents of those Knights who escaped Philip IV and his greed.” Dr. Lecter puts the dollar bill back in his pocket. “ _They_ were the ones who put the map on the back of the Declaration. To make sure it stayed protected from another king.”

 

“There’s a copy of the Declaration on display now?”

Paul Krendler nods. Despite him being the Head Archivist, there’s a shiftiness in the man’s face that makes Crawford distrust him. “Yes, that’s standard procedure for —”

“Leave it there, then,” Crawford orders. “The guests know something happened, but they don’t know what. I’d like to keep this quiet, keep this out of the papers, avoid a panic if at all possible.”

“Of course.” Krendler says after a beat. “ _Agent_.”

The two of them are walking down the vault hallway, Krendler tailing Crawford as the agent retraces the thieves’ steps. Based on the evidence gathered so far, the thieves likely entered electrical through a grate on street level and got access to the service entrance through a patrolling guard’s fingerprints. The guard in question was tased; last time Zeller reported, the EMTs have been treating him, but the guard has no idea who the thieves might have been or of what they looked like.

Katz slips up to his side, a plastic evidence bag in one hand. “We found bullet casings all over the hall and by the elevator,” she reports. “Between the concrete walls of the hallway and possible silencer use, no one would have heard a thing. And the cameras were hacked into from two different sources, so no one saw anything either.”

Crawford turns to Krendler. “Where are the guards that got fired on?” he asks, exasperated. “Did we get a description from them, at least?”

Krendler is visibly confused. “There were no other guards on patrol down here,” he says. “The vault is high-level access only; regular security doesn’t go here.”

Crawford walks up to the elevator. The doors are open, and Price is dusting a bullet-riddled, dismantled display case for prints.

“So who were the thieves shooting at, then?” he asks, pointing to the Declaration’s former display case. “And why weren’t they getting along?”

 

Will pinches his nose and takes a few deep breaths. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that there _is_ a map on the back of the Declaration of Independence,” he says.

“Which there is,” Dr. Lecter says.

Will sighs. “Then you can’t seriously intend to run chemical tests on it in the back of a moving van,” he says. “You’ll need a controlled environment: a clean room, a particulate air filtration system, EDS suits —”

“We have all that,” Chiyoh says. “We were setting it up this whole week.”

“We can’t use it.”

Both Will and Chiyoh look at Dr. Lecter, both surprised and suspicious.

“We can’t use it, Chiyoh,” Dr. Lecter repeats. “The FBI is likely already at the Archives now; the next place they’ll look is my apartment.”

“And why would they look there?” Chiyoh asks, an edge to her voice. “Tell me, Hannibal: _why_ does the FBI have reason to suspect us?”

 

Katz hands Crawford a printed still from the surveillance feed. “Grabbed this at 9:39 this evening,” she says. “Gift shop clerk reports that this guest tried to walk out with a Declaration of Independence replica.” She points at the man in the photograph: Caucasian, hair that could be any color from brown to silver, fitted tuxedo. “When confronted, he apologized and paid for it — paid for two, actually.”

“Did we get a credit card number?” Crawford asks.

“Nope. Gave the clerk cash,” Katz says. “Clerk only vaguely remembers his face, but she remembers how he acted. Said he didn’t seem flustered at all.”

Crawford passes the photograph along to the woman next to him. “Dr. Verger, do you recognize this man? We showed this to a few other guests, and they said that they witnessed him talking to you and Dr. Graham.”

Margot Verger examines it, her mouth pinched and her eyes narrowed. “Yes, I did speak with him,” she says after a moment, handing it back. “He introduced himself as Dr. Roman Fell, but his real name is Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

Zeller flips through the guest list. “Well, whatever his name is, he wasn’t invited.”

Crawford studies the Records of Rights Custodian. She seems tense, but at least she’s volunteering information freely and knowingly. “Where’s your colleague, Dr. Graham? Can we speak with him, find out what Dr. Lecter was talking to him about?”

Verger shrugs. “I don’t know where Will is, but Krendler might,” she says archly, glancing at her boss.

Krendler glares back, and then turns his attention to Crawford. “Last time I saw Graham, he was leaving in a snit,” he says tightly. “I wanted to know why he didn’t tell me about the CMS alert, and he got argumentative. Very unprofessional.”

“What CMS alert?” Crawford wants to know.

“Earlier today, one of the heat sensors in the Declaration case went out of whack,” Krendler says. “Graham ordered the document be brought down to Preservation early and didn’t tell me about it.”

Crawford mulls that over. “Dr. Krendler, Dr. Verger,” he asks. “Do you think Dr. Graham had anything, anything at all to do with the theft?”

“Possibly?” Krendler ventures.

“Absolutely not,” Verger says vehemently.

Price clears his throat. “Well, you’re both sort of correct,” he says. “We’ve got Dr. Graham’s thumbprint on the access pad to the staff elevator. And computerized security records say that he accessed the Preservation Room at 9:32 PM.”

Krendler’s self-satisfied look turns into one of puzzlement. “But I was in the Rotunda with Dr. Graham at that time,” he says slowly.

“But Dr. Lecter wasn’t!” Verger protests. “He could have lifted Will’s fingerprints and used them to bypass security.”

Crawford raises a hand. “Please, Dr. Verger: leave the speculation to the FBI. We’ll find your co-worker and Dr. Lecter soon enough, and figure out their involvement in this.” He eyes her. “Unless there’s something else you want to tell me, _directly_?”

Verger stares him down. “No, Agent Crawford,” she says. “Nothing else.”

 

“At least you were not stupid enough to use a credit card,” Chiyoh mutters.

“But I was spotted by the cashier,” Dr. Lecter says, still maddeningly calm, “and assuredly by the cameras. That’s enough for the FBI to go on.”

Chiyoh’s mouth is set in a thin line. “So what now?”

“I’ll tell you what now,” Will interjects, shifting his position between and behind the front seats. “You give me the Declaration, you let me out of the car, and turn yourselves in.”

“I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that,” Dr. Lecter says. “You, too, will be suspected by the FBI, Will.”

Will’s too taken aback to chastise the other man about the overly familiar use of his name. “ _What_?!”

“I used your bodily and employee information to gain access to the Preservation Room,” Dr. Lecter explains. “Of course, there will be multiple eyewitnesses, Dr. Verger included, who can attest that you were attending the gala, but I imagine the FBI would like to interrogate you all the same.”

Will’s jaw drops. “How did you even —?” He stops, remembering the champagne glass that Dr. Lecter ( _still Dr. Fell at that point)_ had taken off his hands. “You _bastard_ ,” he says. “You lifted my fingerprints.”

“Yes,” Dr. Lecter says simply.

“And my password?” Will demands. “How the hell did you get that?”

Dr. Lecter closes his eyes briefly. “I coated the 1789 Pater Patriae with ultraviolet ink,” he says. “Your fingerprints left unseen impressions on the keyboard.”

Will swallows an uncomfortable lump in his throat. _This is why you should_ always _touch artifacts_ with _gloves on,_ a dry voice in his head remarks, but he’s too overwhelmed and outraged to acknowledge it.

“So you used me,” he accuses. “When I didn’t help you willingly, you _made_ me help you in your — in your —”

“Yes,” Dr. Lecter says. “Yes, I did.”

Will says nothing for a long time. He’s more than a little pissed, but strangely, disappointed: in Dr. Lecter, mostly, but also with himself. _If I hadn’t been spinning around in his orbit — taking his gifts, his compliments —_

“All things considered,” he says, crossing his arms, “give me one _very_ good reason why I shouldn’t try to leave this car with the Declaration and clear my name.”

Dr. Lecter thinks. Then: “If I’m correct and there is a map on the back of the Declaration of Independence,” he says, “would you really prefer it to fall into the hands of Mason Verger, a veritable modern tyrant?”

“Wait, so you’re doubting your own conclusions now?” Will asks dryly.

“I have no doubt about the map’s existence,” Dr. Lecter says. “I was allowing for your own doubt.”

“But how are _you_ so sure?” Will persists. “You said you’d found proof of it in an engraving on a meerschaum pipe; what, exactly, was in that engraving?”

“A riddle.” Dr. Lecter turns his head towards him to recite it. “‘The legend writ, the stain affected, / The key in Silence undetected. / Fifty-five in iron pen: / Mr. Matlack can’t offend.’”

Will frowns. “‘Mr. Matlack’? As in, _Timothy_ Matlack?”

“Now you see why I drew those conclusions,” Dr. Lecter says. “I’ll admit the number of signers is off by one, but the shipwreck I discovered the pipe on vanished before whenever Thomas McKean finally signed.”

Will sits back on his heels and mentally pieces the rest of the riddle out. _“Legend” and “key” are probably what led him to think of a map — an “undetected,” invisible one that could be revealed with a “stain affected.” But a “key in Silence”?_

“What about this ‘Silence’ that the key is in?” he asks, curious despite himself. “If this map is written, no one can hear it; you can’t read a map aloud like a letter or a treatise —” He stops, seeing a strange look come over Dr. Lecter’s face. “What?”

“‘The key in Silence,’” Dr. Lecter repeats slowly. “Of course. Of _course._ ” He points somewhere beyond the windshield. “Chiyoh, pull over for a moment.”

Chiyoh carefully sidles the van over to the side of the road and parks.

“What are we doing?” Will asks, not without trepidation.

Dr. Lecter turns to Chiyoh. “We’ll need to turn around and go to Hillcrest.”

Chiyoh looks just as taken aback as Will is. “Why?”

“We need the letters,” Dr. Lecter says. “The Silence Dogood letters.”

“Oh, did you steal those, too?” Will asks dryly.

Dr. Lecter gives him a cool look. “I know the person who inherited them. I did have scans of the originals, but those scans are back at my apartment.”

“So why do you need the originals?” Will asks. “I’m pretty sure you could find them on the Internet if all you wanted were the contents of the letters and not the actual manuscripts.”

“Exactly,” Chiyoh agrees flatly.

Dr. Lecter looks at Chiyoh. “If it is as Will suggests and the letters also have a message hidden within them, mere scans won’t help us find it,” he says. “Abigail will be at school, and I still have a key; we won’t be there long.”

“And if Abigail _is_ there?” Chiyoh asks pointedly. “Will you still avoid her?”

“No more than she already does to me.”

Will didn’t think he could be this confused and irritated, but tonight is giving him a run for his money. _Who’s Abigail? And why did she inherit the Silence Dogood letters?_

“She is more perceptive than you give her credit for,” Chiyoh says. “She knows what you are doing, and she is not pleased with you for it.”

“There’s no reason for her to be,” Dr. Lecter says.

Chiyoh sighs. “There _is_ plenty of reason.” She slides the van away from the curb. “But you have put off discovering them in favor of discovering treasure.”

Dr. Lecter doesn’t respond; instead, he turns to Will. “Have you decided, Will?” he asks. “Will you persist in leaving, or will you stay?”

Will exhales. “Well, I’m not leaving without the Declaration,” he says. “And you won’t let me leave _with_ the Declaration. So I guess I’m — I’m going with you two.”

Dr. Lecter looks quite pleased.

Chiyoh does not. “Hannibal, are you sure we cannot leave him behind _without_ the Declaration?” she says. “I _do_ have duct tape in the back.”

“Well,” Will says, bitterly cheerful, “if you _really_ wanted to leave me behind, you shouldn’t have told me where you were going.”

 

Jack Crawford stands unmoved in the middle of rushing S.W.A.T. team members and Art Crime Team agents, and he surveys the room. Dr. Lecter chose a nice enough place to live — open concept, remodeled kitchen, furnishings out of a goddamn _Architectural Digest_ issue — and work, judging by the plastic sheeting surrounding a desk covered with chemistry equipment and books on the National Archives. Judging from that and the EDS suits hanging on a coat rack nearby, it looks like Dr. Lecter was planning to bring the Declaration of Independence here.

 _But to do what?_ Crawford walks towards the living room, where Zeller and Price are crowded around a laptop on the coffee table and Katz is flipping through sheets of paper with gloved hands. _Hopefully he’ll come back here and I’ll get to ask him myself._

Katz holds up the papers as he approaches. “Scans of letters to the editor of the _New England Courant,_ 1722,” she says. “They’re all from the same person: ‘your humble servant, Silence Dogood.’”

Zeller speaks up. “We did a little digging, and get this. Those letters? Written by Benjamin Franklin.” He turns the laptop towards Crawford. “When he was sixteen, Franklin was apprenticed to his brother James’ printing shop. He’d failed to get anything in the _Courant_ under his own name, so —”

“— he invented Silence Dogood: a middle-aged minister’s widow,” Price continues. “He secretly wrote fourteen letters to the editor of the _Courant,_ posing as her, and they were all published. Very popular among readers.”

Crawford only spares a short glance towards the laptop. “Any idea why Dr. Lecter’s so interested in these letters?”

“None whatsoever,” Price confesses. “But we’ve got agents combing this place over; if there’s any reason why, they’ll find it.”

Crawford nods. “Give me what you’ve got on Lecter.”

Zeller turns the laptop back towards himself and brings up a new screen. “Disclaimer: I am _not_ making any of this shit up.” He clears his throat. “Hannibal Lecter, son of Ricardas and Simonetta Lecter, former Lithuanian ambassadors to the States. Ph.D in medicine and psychology from Johns Hopkins, and later, another Ph.D in American history from Georgetown. Trained in naval diving, too.”

“He’s currently unemployed, but his paper trail for the last six years after Georgetown has him all over the place,” Price adds. “Most recently: Boston, France, Boston again, Greenland. Then he drops off the grid, and then his visa shows up approximately one week ago, on a one-way plane ticket from Toronto to D.C.”

 _Who_ is _this guy?_ “Any family or friends in the area he might go to?” Crawford asks. “If he isn’t coming back here, he’s heading to one of them.”

“Nearly nothing,” Katz says. “His parents are dead; so are the uncle and aunt that adopted him. He had a sister, Mischa, but she was murdered in a motel outside of Boston ten years ago. Lots of publicity then, cold case now. His only living relative is Mischa’s adopted daughter, Abigail. She’s a freshman at Georgetown, so she isn’t far.”

“I want agents in touch with Res Life, then,” Crawford says. “Find out where Lecter’s niece lives and keep an eye on her.” He pauses. “And find out all you can about his sister’s murder. We figure that out, we figure out what kind of person Lecter is.”

His phone starts ringing in his pocket. Crawford takes it out, and is confronted with a caller I.D. that he thought he’d never hear from again.

Stomping away from his agents, Crawford takes the call. “Took you long enough,” he snaps. “What the hell is going on in D.C., and what do you have to do with it?”

 

Will stops by the mailbox and takes in what’s up the path ahead. The house they’ve stopped at looks similar to the other houses lining the still, silent street: colonial-style, white siding and ornamental shutters, oak trees lining the fence of trimmed bushes. But unlike the other houses, the front and interior lights are turned off.

Dr. Lecter, leather document case with the Declaration inside slung over his shoulder, looks up at the house. “It hasn’t changed,” he says.

Will glances over at him. “Changed from what?”

“Any point in time I’ve been welcome here.” Dr. Lecter’s gaze seems almost wistful.

Chiyoh slips up behind them. “I parked the van two blocks over,” she says. “That will not fool the FBI for long, however.”

“Then we should get going.” Taking the van keys from Chiyoh, Dr. Lecter picks out a single key and strides towards the front door.

It isn’t until all three of them are on the porch until the overhead light suddenly turns on, nearly blinding them after so long in the dark. Will squints and rubs at his eyes, and looks up in time to see the door open before Dr. Lecter can even turn the key.

A young brunette woman in a turtleneck and pajama pants is on the other side of the threshold, staring at them in shock.

“Hello, Abigail,” Dr. Lecter says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the American Philosophical Society, Yale University, and the Packard Humanities Institute, you can now read all the [Silence Dogood letters](http://franklinpapers.org/franklin/framedVolumes.jsp) online! (Not to mention everything else Benjamin Franklin wrote.)


	8. In which a new clue is discovered and Abigail has a worse night than Will.

Abigail slaps Dr. Lecter across the face.

Will winces. Chiyoh snorts quietly.

Dr. Lecter merely fixes a pleasant smile to his face. “Always a pleasure to see you,” he says.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Abigail hisses. “And who’s _he_?”

Will realizes she’s pointing at him and backs up.

“A new partner,” Dr. Lecter says. “And I could ask you the same question.”

“I _live_ here,” Abigail says through gritted teeth.

“Yes, you do,” Dr. Lecter agrees, brushing past her and entering the house. “But why are you here and not at school?”

Abigail turns on her heel and stalks after Dr. Lecter. “One, I have a car and I can leave campus whenever I want,” she says. “And _two —_ ”

Chiyoh follows Abigail. After a moment, Will steps over the threshold, closes the front door, and trails after the three of them inside, to a spotless living room with a white-paneled fireplace and furniture partly covered with sheets.

“— Marissa’s coming over tomorrow,” Abigail is saying, still glaring at Dr. Lecter, “and we _were_ going to have a quiet weekend, away from studying, away from her loser boyfriend —”

Dr. Lecter wrinkles his nose. “Marissa Schurr?”

“Yes, Marissa Schurr,” Abigail says tartly, crossing her arms. “We’ve been friends since Girl Scouts, Uncle; did you really think that college would change that?”

Will looks between the two of them, surprised. _She’s Dr. Lecter’s niece?_

“I was hoping more than thinking.” Dr. Lecter sits down on the (uncovered) couch. “But I’m not here about your social life, Abigail. I’m here about the Silence Dogood letters.”

Abigail’s mouth drops open, but she composes herself. “This better not be about the _Charlotte_ ,” she warns.

Dr. Lecter shakes his head. “My days of looking for the _Charlotte_ are over.”

Will looks at him, confused. _What does a ship have to do with anything?_

Abigail’s eyes narrow. “So that’s it, then?” she asks bitterly. “Ten years chasing after some ship, and just _now_ you decide to give up? Because you _finally_ figured out that our lives are messed up enough without hunting for a treasure that hasn’t been seen in centuries, if it even _exists_?”

“I didn’t say I gave up, Abigail,” Dr. Lecter says firmly. “I’m through with searching for the _Charlotte_ because I found her.”

Eyes going wide, Abigail sinks into the chair across from him. “You… did?” she asks, her voice now quiet. “Where — where was she?”

“Not off the coast of France,” Dr. Lecter says, almost wryly. “Far north, up near Greenland, buried under layers of ice and snow.”

Abigail processes that. Then: “And the treasure?”

Dr. Lecter shakes his head. “We found a new clue. A meerschaum pipe, with a message carved into the stem.”

“Oh, and that’ll just lead you to another clue, and another clue, and another!” Abigail crosses her arms and tightens her lips. “That’s all you’ll ever find: more clues.”

“Clues that will lead to the Templar treasure,” Dr. Lecter says.

“Don’t you get it?” Abigail huffs, standing up. “Look: you told me that the treasure was hidden to keep it safe from the British. Has it ever occurred to you that _maybe_ the Masons made up some bullshit legend to keep the British distracted and looking for treasure?”

Will shrugs. _Well, it makes the most sense… but what about this ship that Dr. Lecter supposedly found? And the pipe and the riddle?_

Dr. Lecter’s eyes gleam with a strange light. “I refuse to believe that,” he says, his voice thick. “The legend had truth enough for Mischa to believe.”

Abigail flinches, as if her uncle had returned her slap, but stands her ground. “And look where that belief got Mom,” she says. “ _That’s_ what’s going to happen to you if you keep searching.” She swallows. “You won’t just waste your life. You’ll lose it.”

Dr. Lecter looks at her, his gaze searching. “Perhaps,” he says. “But I’ve never feared death. The thought that my life could end at any moment frees me to fully appreciate the beauty and mystery of everything this world has to offer. It’s…  comforting, in its own way.”

“Well, potentially losing what’s left of my family to this stupid treasure hunt wouldn’t _comfort_ me!” Abigail retorts. “First my birth parents, then Mom — and of course, you just _had_ to rope Chiyoh into this —”

“I volunteered, Abigail,” Chiyoh says, and her voice suddenly seems very gentle.

Abigail shot a glance at Will.

“I... didn’t,” Will says haltingly.

Abigail throws up her hands and turns back to Hannibal. “See? _That’s_ what you do. You just… _drag_ people into shit and then keep going when they fall behind!”

Dr. Lecter’s eyebrows arch. “That’s not what I do.”

“Then why else would you be here?” Abigail demands. “You want the letters, and you didn’t want me to be home to interfere. You already dragged and dropped me; why pick me up again unless I have something you want?”

Dr. Lecter doesn’t respond. _That,_ Will guesses, is true.

“Thought so.” Abigail exhales harshly and her shoulders slump. “Whatever. Whatever! _Fine_. Just… do whatever you want to do here and then _leave_.” She turns around. “ _Again_.” And with that, she leaves the living room.

Chiyoh breaks the silence. “I... do not want to say that I told you so, and _yet_ …”

Dr. Lecter sighs, dropping his head into his hands. “Yes, Chiyoh. You told me so.” He raises his head and stands up, slinging the leather document case off his back. “Even so, we can’t return to my apartment. We need to find out what’s on the back of the Declaration here, and why it relates to the Silence Dogood letters.”

After a moment, Chiyoh nods. “We can clear off the dining room table and put down garbage bags,” she says. “It is better than nothing.”

Dr. Lecter turns to Will. “The bathroom’s down the hall. There should be a box of gloves and some cotton swabs in the sink cabinet; would you mind fetching them?”

Will blinks. “Uh… sure.”

Stepping out of the living room, Will moves down the hall: wallpapered in a lightly striped pattern and lined with framed paintings and glass cases of archaeological artifacts. He scans them as he goes, but stops at the case right before the bathroom. It holds campaign buttons of George Washington’s, individually mounted and meticulously labeled.

One, however, is missing from its stand. Will has a sneaking suspicion about which one it is, but he looks at the label anyway.

_1_ _789 Pater Patriae button (RARE)_

_Discovered (by me!!) near Annapolis, Maryland_

_(Gifted to my dear brother)_

Will stares at the empty space for a while longer, trying to process not just why Dr. Lecter would give him a rare Washington campaign button, but why Dr. Lecter would give him a rare Washington campaign button that had once belonged to his dead sister. _Or at least, I’m assuming she’s dead_ , he thinks as he enters the bathroom. _Abigail talks about her like she is._

 _But how did Dr. Lecter’s sister — Mischa — die?_ Will wonders, crouching down and opening up the wooden cabinet underneath the sink. _And what did her death have to do with the treasure?_

Something clatters on the tile floor beside him, and Will looks to see what it is.

His cell phone has fallen out of his pocket. And, judging by the glowing notifications on his screen, he has three missed calls: one from Peter and two from Margot.

Will contemplates the screen. If he responds, the FBI will, more than likely, trace his texts or calls. But if he doesn’t respond, there’s no way for Peter or Margot to know what has happened to him.

And either way (and as much as he hates to admit it), he’s a _little_ curious about whether Dr. Lecter’s hypothesis is actually correct — and he can’t find out if they land in federal custody.

Unlocking his phone, Will types out his first text. It is to Peter, and it reads: _Sorry for not responding earlier. In a weird situation; won’t be making it home tonight. Can you please check in on Winston over this weekend? Usual rate, plus bonus for every day I’m gone. Thanks._

Will sends it, and then types out his second text, to Margot. _Sorry for not answering calls. Assuming the FBI is looking for me. Did_ not _have anything to do with whatever happened at the Archives. May or may not be in work on Monday; we’ll see what happens._ He pauses, and then finishes with, _Also, keep an eye on Mason if you can. He has something to do with what happened tonight._

After he sends that and double-checks to make sure the first text sent, Will turns off his phone, tosses it into the toilet, and flushes. It might not fool the FBI for long, but his phone was a piece of shit anyway.

Will finds the cotton swabs and the box of gloves, closes the cabinet door, and makes his way back down the hall. Chiyoh and Dr. Lecter are in the dining room, one door down from the living room; the former is taping down garbage bags over the table, and the latter is positioning a dish of sliced lemons, a shaker of salt, and a box of baking soda on it.

“Here you go.” Will puts down the cotton swabs, and then pulls out a pair of gloves for himself before handing over the box.

Dr. Lecter nods and puts on some gloves. He then takes out a plastic bag containing the Declaration from within the document case, then removes the plastic and unrolls the Declaration over the table, writing down.

“What’s that?”

The three of them turn their heads. Abigail stands by the door, a laptop under one arm and a steaming mug in the other; Will thinks that curiosity got the better of her, too.

“It looks like animal skin,” she remarks, leaning against the door frame. “Or really old paper. How old is it?”

“At least two hundred years old,” Dr. Lecter says.

Abigail looks grudgingly impressed. “That’s… old.”

Chiyoh snaps on her gloves. “So how do we reveal the invisible ink?”

“You throw it in the oven,” Abigail says matter-of-factly. “Ferrous sulfate inks can only be brought out with heat.”

Dr. Lecter gives her a look.

“What?” Abigail protests. “That’s what you taught me.” She sips her drink. “Plus, you’ll need a reagent.”

“Correct, but due to the map’s age and value, we can’t risk compromising it,” Dr. Lecter says. “And shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Abigail rolls her eyes. “ _Please:_ I haven’t gone to bed before eleven since I _was_ eleven. And if I’m going to hang out with Marissa without worrying about studying, I’ll need to do all my work tonight.” She continues down the hallway.

Dr. Lecter sighs, and then takes a lemon slice from the bowl.

Will winces. “Are we really doing this like… _this_?”

“It’s not ideal, I know,” Dr. Lecter says, “but it has to be done.”

“Then at least let someone who’s _actually_ trained to handle antique documents do it,” Will says. “Just let me do it. To put my mind at ease.”

Without missing a beat, Dr. Lecter hands over the lemon slice.

Will is surprised, but he takes it. “Okay, so… if there is a secret message, it’ll be marked by a symbol...” He leans over the table, grabs a cotton swab, and brushes it over the lemon. He points with it. “Here. Upper right-hand corner.”

 _If Krendler hasn’t already fired me, I’m definitely going to get fired now_. Will takes a deep breath and swabs the corner of the Declaration.

Will withdraws and watches where the lemon juice soaks into the parchment. Chiyoh views it from a distance; Dr. Lecter stares closely, intently.

Nothing shows up.

“I told you, Uncle.” It’s Abigail, back at the door again with a stack of papers and notebooks. “You need heat.”

Will looks at Dr. Lecter, and Dr. Lecter looks back. Then both of them bend over the Declaration. Without a word, and yet in unison, they exhale, their breaths mingling over the parchment.

And then something appears, very faintly, and disappears just as quickly: an inked square and compass, with the letter “G” in the center. A symbol of Freemasonry.

Abigail looks smug. “See?”

Will feels like the wind has been knocked out of him: breathless, shocked, awed. He glances over at Dr. Lecter, and sees him smiling widely, teeth and all.

And Will, inexplicably, smiles back.

Chiyoh clears her throat.

Will snaps back to the present. “We’re, uh, going to need more lemons,” he says.

“And more heat,” Dr. Lecter adds. “Oh, and Abigail: can you spare some paper and a pencil?”

 

Two hair dryers and a pound of sliced lemons later, Abigail’s sociology notebook is sitting next to the Declaration of Independence — the back blank once again — with two pages full of columns of dashed number sequences.

“That is not a map,” Chiyoh says pointedly.

“More clues,” Abigail mutters, putting down her pen; she’d made a show of reluctantly playing scribe for the three of them as they poured over every corner of the Declaration. “Surprise, surprise.”

Will scrutinizes the lines of numbers. “Sort of,” he says. “Judging by the format, I think these numbers are part of an Ottendorf cipher.”

“A incredibly specific book cipher.” Dr. Lecter carefully folds the pages along the perforations at the edge, then removes them from the notebook. “Each set of numbers points to a letter in a particular piece of written material shared by the codewriter and the codebreaker.”

“The Silence Dogood letters,” Will realizes.

Dr. Lecter nods. “Each number within a set has a meaning. The first number, the number of the Silence Dogood letter. The second, the line on the page. And the third, the letter on the line.” He passes the papers to Chiyoh and then looks over at Abigail. “So, Abigail: may we have the letters now?”

Abigail twirls her pen between her fingers. “You know,” she says brightly, addressing Will, “it’s kind of a funny story how our family even got the Silence Dogood letters in the first place —”

“Abigail,” Dr. Lecter says.

“See, Great-Uncle Robert _really_ got into collecting colonial furniture after he moved to the States,” Abigail continues, as if her uncle hadn’t spoken. “And he picked up this writing desk at auction, and it turns out it used to be James Franklin’s — you know, the publisher of the _New England Courant_ , Benjamin Franklin’s brother, all that —”

“ _Abigail_ ,” Dr. Lecter repeats.

“— and there was a side drawer that had the original letters in them,” Abigail finishes. “ _What_ , Uncle?”

Dr. Lecter contemplates her. “You don’t have the letters, do you?”

Abigail chews her lip. “In my defense,” she says tightly, “you’d funneled all that Verger slaughterhouse money into the hunt for the _Charlotte_ , and I needed to make my first tuition payment to Georgetown. _And_ pay off the mortgage on this place.”

“What did you do with them?” Dr. Lecter asks, an edge to his voice.

Abigail stares back at him challengingly. “The Franklin Institute in Philadelphia,” she says. “I contacted them about acquiring the letters, they offered enough for my four years of undergrad, and... one thing led to another.”

Dr. Lecter regards his niece for a moment; there’s an expression on his face that Will can’t identify. Then: “We leave for Philadelphia, then.” He turns away.

“I know you’re judging me, so _don’t_ ,” Abigail says sharply. “Don’t you dare.”

Dr. Lecter sighs. “I’m not angry, Abigail,” he says. “I’m just disappointed.”

“‘ _Disappointed_ ’?” Abigail echoes, her voice shooting up an octave. “Disappointed that I can afford to go to college without taking out loans? Pay for utilities, get gas and groceries, keep living in my Mom’s house? Or, you know, just keep _living_ while you’re putting every last cent into finding _this?_ ” She punctuates her last word by grabbing the corner of the Declaration and holding it up.

Will lunges for it. “Don’t —”

Abigail has already dropped the document back down on the table. Her face is roughly the same blotchy, pale color of the parchment. “Oh my God,” she says. “Oh my _God._ ”

Dr. Lecter turns back around. “Abigail —”

“That’s the Declaration of Independence,” Abigail says, her voice strangled. “The _Declaration of fucking Independence_. On my dining room table.”

Will groans quietly, putting one hand to his face. Chiyoh’s eyes dart away.

Dr. Lecter barely blinks. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, it is.”

“You _stole_ it?!” Abigail shrieks.

“Yes, for perfectly valid reasons.” Dr. Lecter walks over to the table and carefully rolls up the Declaration of Independence.

“‘Perfectly valid’ — no! _No!_ ” Abigail grabs his arm. “There are _no_ good reasons to steal the Declaration of Independence!”

Dr. Lecter slides the plastic over the parchment, and then puts everything in the document case. “Believe me: there are.”

Abigail inhales shakily. “I don’t,” she says. “I _don’t_ believe you. Not anymore.”

 _Now_ Will can identify the look on Dr. Lecter’s face: regret.

Abigail points at the door. “Go,” she orders. “Go before the police, or the FBI, or _whoever_ show up. And don’t come back.”

Dr. Lecter’s jaw tightens. “Abigail, listen —”

“No, _you_ listen: I don’t want to be part of this anymore,” Abigail spits out. “Maybe when I was a kid and you could still tell me what to think or do, but not _now_.”

Dr. Lecter steps towards her. “Very well,” he says. “You won’t be.” He turns to Chiyoh. “Do you still have that duct tape from the car?”

 

The front door of 103 Bloomington Avenue is unlocked.

Jack Crawford frowns. He motions to the agents on the stairs behind him to draw arms, and then turns the knob again and nudges open the door.

“Hello?” A female voice, somewhere within the house. “Who’s there?”

Crawford raises his voice. “Agent Jack Crawford, FBI. Who is this?”

“Abigail. Abigail Hobbs-Lecter.” A squeaking and scraping of wood over linoleum. “Can — can you come in? And untie me, _please_?”

One hand on his gun grip, Crawford enters the house with his team behind him. He walks through the living room — no one there — then turns down the hallway and stops at the kitchen door.

The kitchen is a mess: garbage bags taped to the table, sliced and squeezed lemons on the counter, a hair dryer on the floor and another on the counter. A young woman that he assumes is Abigail Hobbs-Lecter is duct-taped to a kitchen chair, with a quietly sullen expression on her face.

Crawford steps into the kitchen and lets his pistol drop back into the holster. Katz slips by him; she takes out a pocket knife and carefully cuts through Abigail’s bonds.

“Thanks.” Abigail rubs at her red, chafed arms as they’re released. “Oh, that _motherfucker_.”

Crawford’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Not you,” Abigail amends. “My uncle.”

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter?” Crawford pulls out a chair and sits down.

“That’s him.” Abigail snorts. “I told him the FBI would probably come for him, and that’s when he did this.” She taps the duct tape imprints on her arms.

Crawford nods at his agents. “Zee, Jimmy: sweep the house. Katz: stick around.” He turns back to Abigail and flashes his badge, for good measure. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions about your uncle and why he was here tonight.”

Fortunately for him, Abigail is forthcoming. “So... Hannibal showed up about one and a half, two hours ago, with my old babysitter and some guy he introduced as his ‘new partner’. They had the Declaration of Independence, and they ran some really slapdash chemical tests on the back. They found an Ottendorf cipher —”

“On the back of the Declaration?” Crawford interrupts.

“Yeah, on the back of the Declaration,” Abigail says tiredly. “And Hannibal said that the key text were the Silence Dogood letters, so now they’re all going to Philadelphia to look at them.”

Katz crosses her arms. “Secret cipher on the back of the Declaration of Independence,” she muses. “That’s a… _bizarre_ reason for stealing it, but still a reason.”

Crawford rubs his chin. “What’s the cipher for?” he asks.

Abigail grimaces. “Would you believe… finding the long-lost hidden treasure of the Knights Templar?”

Zeller sticks his head back in the kitchen. “Wait, _what?_ Really?”

“Yes, really,” Abigail says testily.

Crawford huffs and glances over at Zeller. “Tell me you found something, Zee.”

Zeller lifts up a plastic baggie with a waterlogged phone inside. “It was in the bathroom down the hall, partially flushed,” he says. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s Dr. Graham’s phone.”

“That would explain the texts we got alerts for earlier,” Price puts in, squeezing into the doorway. “I’m guessing Dr. Lecter wasn’t too happy about Dr. Graham trying to call for help and tried to dispose of the evidence.”

Zeller rolls his eyes. “There are more effective ways to destroy a cell phone. I say Dr. Graham’s leaving us a soggy breadcrumb trail.”

“Dr. Graham?” Abigail asks, confused.

Katz pulls out Dr. Graham’s Archives staff photo from her jacket pocket. “Dr. Will Graham, Charters of Freedom Custodian at the National Archives. We think he might have been an accomplice to the Declaration theft.” She shows Abigail the picture. “Is this your uncle’s ‘new partner’?”

Abigail nods.

“Can you give us the name of the third person with your uncle?” Crawford asks. “Your ‘old babysitter’?”

“Yeah, but good luck finding anything,” Abigail says. “Her name’s Chiyoh. No idea what her last name is, if she has one.”

Katz flips over the picture, grabs a pen from the table, and writes it down.

Crawford looks back at Price. “Did _you_ find anything?” he asks pointedly.

“More like what I _didn’t_ find,” Price says. “Garage is empty.”

Abigail’s mouth drops open. “He stole my _car?!_ ”

Price squints at the registration in his hand. “A 2000 Bentley Arnage, Red Label? Registered to… a Dr. Hannibal Lecter?”

Abigail scowls. “It _used_ to be his,” she says. “He gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday, and he _told_ me he put the registration in my name!”

“Guess not,” Zeller says under his breath.

Crawford rubs his temples. Secret ciphers, conspiracy theories, off-the-grid accomplices, stolen luxury cars, a phone call out of the fucking blue… this night is becoming a _lot_ more complicated than he’d ever anticipated.

Regardless, they still need to find the Declaration of Independence and arrest _someone_ — and _fast._

“Jimmy,” he finally says once he’s gathered his thoughts. “Get in touch with Philadelphia P.D. and the FBI field office and tell them who we’re looking for. Zee, Katz: get the search team and canvas the surrounding blocks; we had an unidentified red van reported at the Archives and it’ll probably be dumped here.”

The agents murmur affirmatives and move out.

Crawford refocuses on Abigail. “Now, Ms. Hobbs-Lecter,” he says, “I understand you’ve had a very trying night, but I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

“What about?” Abigail asks. “I already told you everything I know.”

“Not about your uncle. About your adoptive mother.” Crawford takes out his notepad and flips it open. “Mischa Lecter.”

Abigail swallows. “My mom’s dead,” she finally says. “What does she have to do with my uncle stealing the Declaration?”

Crawford pauses. “We think,” he says, measuring his words, “that the suspicious and unsolved nature of your mother’s death has something to do with… whatever treasure you say your uncle claims to be seeking.”

Unexpectedly, Abigail smiles: small, bitter. “Well,” she says, “you’ve got _that_ right, Agent Crawford.” She crosses her arms. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything you can tell me.”

 

“We should not have taken this car,” Chiyoh says.

Hannibal glances over to the passenger seat. “Why not?”

“You may have gifted the Bentley to Abigail, but the registration is still in your name,” Chiyoh points out. “We would have done better to steal an unsecured car from someone’s driveway.”

Hannibal shrugs. “Perhaps.” He turns the wheel, relishing the smoothness of the motion. “But it’s been too long since I drove this car.”

“It _is_ a really nice car,” Will chimes in from the back seat. “I’d be scared to drive it around in D.C., though. Practically begging to get dinged up or scratched.”

“And it’s conspicuous,” Chiyoh adds pointedly. “Much like us at the moment.”

Hannibal glances down and remembers that he’s still in his tuxedo from the National Archives gala. “We’ll have to go shopping when we reach Philadelphia,” he says. _Wouldn’t do to stand out, even in a city of thousands._

“Do we even have money for that?” Will asks incredulously.

“ _Paper_ money,” Chiyoh clarifies.

Hannibal pats the glove compartment with his free hand. “I took Mischa’s old copy of _Common Sense_ from the living room. There should be a few hundred-dollar bills tucked between the pages.”

“How appropriate,” Will comments, leaning back in his seat.

Hannibal hums in agreement. He hadn’t though the book would still be there, sitting among Abigail’s old fairy tale anthologies, but apparently, his niece was just sentimental enough to keep what could not be sold for vast sums.

He hadn’t wanted to leave Abigail behind like that. He’d hoped that after her recent years of resentment, she would come around and finally realize all he was doing for her, for their family, for the memory of those who’d searched before them and died without being nearly as close as he was now.

Yes, they were both altruistically selfish in their own ways, Hannibal decides as he drives into the night. After all, true altruism — true commitment to uncovering history, with no other motive than the truth — had died with Mischa.

And now, they were both slowly dying without her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Book ciphers](http://www.wondersandmarvels.com/2012/11/whats-in-a-book-a-brief-history-of-book-ciphers.html) are fascinating as fuck.
> 
> The [2000 Bentley Arnage, Red Label](http://weartherude.tumblr.com/post/55689332860/2000-bentley-arnage-red-label-as-driven-by) is Hannibal's car in Season 1. I couldn't resist.


	9. In which Chiyoh cracks the cipher and Hannibal and Will go shopping.

**_Philadelphia, Pennsylvania_ **

_S S A N D_

Keeping one eye on the composition book page being held in front of her, Chiyoh carefully copies down the letters onto the edge of the newspaper. “Good work,” she says shortly; she’s not one for praise.

Her accomplice, a school-aged girl wearing a red striped sweater that clashes with her lavender cardigan, smiles proudly. “How many more letters?”

“Just four.” Chiyoh gives her the last scrap of the page with the numbers of the Ottendorf cipher; she’s been tearing strips off and giving them to the girl throughout the morning. “And here is something for those five.”

The girl readily accepts both the cipher slip and the dollar bill that Chiyoh has folded underneath it. She turns away from the bus stop and looks both ways down the street.

“Is anyone else looking at the letters?” Chiyoh asks suddenly.

The girl shakes her head, bobbed auburn hair swinging around her shoulders. “No, ma’am,” she says. “Maybe they can’t read the writing that well.”

Chiyoh nods, unconvinced. “The four letters,” she says. “Then you will be done.”

Satisfied that the crosswalk is clear, the girl runs back across the street to the wide white steps of the Franklin Institute. Her backpack is shaped like a lamb, with the legs as straps, and its fluffy ears bounce with her every footfall.

Chiyoh watches the girl’s haste with approval. Even though no one knew of her involvement in the Declaration heist, the FBI would be certain to come to Philadelphia if they had found the copies of the Silence Dogood letters in Hannibal’s apartment. And since hovering over said letters would cause suspicion, she’d opted to recruit a more innocent-seeming accomplice, from a group of schoolchildren on a field trip. (The girl had seemed more interested in the history around her than her peers, and when approached, she was astute enough to bargain for a fee.)

Turning her attention back to the crossword puzzle page of the _Gettysburg Times_ , Chiyoh reviews the letters she’s received so far:

_THEVI SIONTO SEETHE TREAS UREDPA STCOME SASTH ETIMEL YSHADO WPASS ESINFR ONTOFT HEHOUS EOFPA SSAND_

Which, after she’d separated the long string of letters into words (based on her best guess), have become:

_THE VISION TO SEE THE TREASURED PAST COMES AS THE TIMELY SHADOW PASSES IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE OF PASS AND_

“‘Pass and’... ‘Pass and’ _what?_ ” she murmurs aloud. _Where is Hannibal and his uncanny knowledge of U.S. history when you need him?_

It was a foolish thing to think; she knew full well. If she could only remain undetected by sitting at a bus stop across the street from the Franklin Institute, while a plucky second-grader couriered letters to her, Hannibal would be arrested on the spot if undercover law enforcement, was, in fact, in the building, as she suspected. And so, while Hannibal and Dr. Graham are hopefully clothes shopping, _she_ is attempting to figure this out on her own.

The bus pulls up to the curb with a shifting of gears and a squealing of brakes. It sports a large advertisement for Grand Liberty Bank, emblazoned with Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, that takes up almost the entire length of the bus.

As the doors open, Chiyoh stares at the picture of the Liberty Bell. Then, glancing down at her newspaper, she squints to try and read the inscription on the side:

_PASS AND STOW_

_PHILAD A_

_MDCCLIII_

Chiyoh’s eyes widen. She gets to her feet, tucking her newspaper under her arm. As she does so, she sees a group of people dressed in casual, but sharp attire approaching the Franklin Institute from the other side of the street. Unlike the meandering crowds of tourists and city dwellers, they move briskly, with purpose and directness, even if it means brushing shoulders or outright knocking into people.

One of them, the only woman in the group, scans the passing cars and city buses, and her gaze falls on the bus stop. Then her eyes meet Chiyoh’s, and Chiyoh recognizes her, belatedly, as Alana Bloom.

Dr. Bloom stares at her with a curiously neutral look. Then she turns and follows Mason and his henchmen up the stairs, without a word to any of them.

Chiyoh frowns. She thinks it unusual that Dr. Bloom wouldn’t notify Mason immediately, but she isn’t about to wait and see how long it will take.

Folding the crossword page and puts it in her pocket, Chiyoh leaves the bulk of the newspaper on the bench with a five-dollar bill underneath for the girl and leaps on the bus right before the doors close.

 

Will stalks away from the cash wrap back towards the fitting rooms, glaring at the new clothes thrown over his arm. “Why is everything in here so _expensive_?”

“Cheaply made and tawdry designs masquerading as the height of fashion.” Dr. Lecter holds his neatly folded clothes a distance away from himself, while the document case with the Declaration inside is tucked under his arm. “This is far from my idea of what is sartorially appealing, but now that there’s a greater chance that the FBI is searching for us, we need to remain inconspicuous.”

 _And whose fault is that?_ Will almost snaps back. It’s something he would have said Friday night, in a red van speeding through downtown D.C., with the man who’d taken advantage of his grudging trust to steal the Declaration of Independence and find the treasure map on the back.

But it’s Saturday morning, in a city one hundred thirty-five miles and a state border away, and he’s seen what’s _really_ on the back of the Declaration of Independence: revealed it himself, with a brush of a cotton swab soaked in lemon juice.

It’s the kind of discovery that makes perspectives — and priorities — shift, at least a little bit.

“Fine by me,” is what Will decides on. “At least I can ditch my suit.”

Dr. Lecter smiles amusedly. “Something we can both be thankful for.”

“Hey, _hey_ ,” Will says. “My suit’s not _that_ ugly; it’s just a pain in the ass to wear.”

“I can imagine.” Dr. Lecter turns the corner into the fitting rooms: a corridor of cubicles separated by wooden shutters that offered far less privacy than Will would have liked. “Have you ever taken it to a tailor? A few alterations might make it a more attractive prospect to wear.”

Will snorts and slips past the shutters into one of the rooms, latching it shut from the inside. “You’re assuming that I _want_ to wear suits in the first place.”

Although the fitting rooms are deserted this early in the day, Dr. Lecter takes the room right next to him. “So you would rather wear the gaudy garments sold here than a respectable, if ill-fitting, suit?”

“I’d wear what _I_ bought.” Will spreads out his purchases on the bench and takes a look at them all together. A cream-colored T-shirt with a curved hem and a chest pocket. Straight jeans with frayed cuffs, and a jean button-down shirt in a darker wash. Blue and white canvas skate shoes.

They were the cheapest and least hideous pieces of clothing he could find in the store — and even so, he usually wouldn’t be caught dead in them — but he’d still take them any day over any suit, even his own.

“A fair answer.” A rustling of fabric through thin walls; Dr. Lecter has started to undress.

( _Not that I’m thinking about that,_ Will thinks hastily. He shucks off his suit jacket.)

Dr. Lecter speaks again. “I’ve been meaning to thank you.”

“For what?” Will loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt.

“For deciding to stay and be a part of this,” Dr. Lecter says. “Willingly, now that you know the truth.”

Will can’t resist. “And not taking offense to _anything_ you’ve done in the name of the Templar Treasure?”

An awkward silence from the next-door fitting room, save for the continued rustling of fabric, more likely than not means _yes._

“I get it,” Will says, stripping off his tie and shirt and shoving them to one side of the bench. “I mean, I was plenty pissed last night — still kind of am,” he admits, “but I think I get it now.”

“How so?” Dr. Lecter asks.

Will sits down on the bench and unties his shoes. “The Knights Templar Treasure is big,” he says. “Size-wise, probably, but importance-wise, _definitely_.” He kicks off his shoes and squirms out of his pants. “If discovered, I think it would fill in a lot of missing historical puzzle pieces.”

“It would,” Dr. Lecter agrees. “The fortunes of the ancients and the fate of the Knights Templar are buried in that horde.” He pauses. “And the future of my family.”

Will picks up his new jeans and stands to put them on; now that he’s holding them, he notices the white embroidery on the hip: a pyramid, a lightning bolt, open hands with eyes in their palms. _Appropriate imagery for this treasure hunt._

“All of that,” he says, pulling on his jeans. “And… I know that this is personal to you; I’m not trying to diminish that just because of the history behind it.”

“I know,” Dr. Lecter says simply. “Your perspective is a refreshing change of pace: enthusiasm for the treasure’s historical value rather than its monetary value.” He sighs. “Too often, the latter quality is the only way that people will take it seriously.”

“People like Mason Verger?” Will ventures.

Another silence. Then: “Yes,” Dr. Lecter says. “Yes, like Mason.”

Will slides on his new shoes and ties the laces.

“In light of all that’s happened in the past week, our partnership has… been a mistake,” Dr. Lecter says. “But at the time, it was my only option for renewed funding and searching. Giving up was never an option.”

“Because of your family?” Will asks. “Your niece?”

Dr. Lecter laughs quietly, dryly. “At that point, yes. Until the _Charlotte_ , I felt I had to keep searching to prove Abigail wrong, rather than prove Mischa right.” He pauses. “I — I lost sight of why I began searching at all.”

 _Mischa. His sister. His — from the sound of it —_ dead _sister._ Will pulls the T-shirt over his head. _Who found the 1789 Pater Patriae that he gave to me._

“I… guess I should thank you again. Now that I, uh, know more about the button,” Will ventures. “I know your sister found it, and it must mean a lot to you and I’m —” _Pleased? Touched?_ “— honored that you thought I would be… worthy of it.”

All sound in the changing room next door stops.

Will freezes. _Shit. Read too much into this._ “Too... personal?”

Dr. Lecter sighs deeply. “In some ways,” he admits. “Time may heal most wounds, but as long as I seek the treasure, Mischa’s death remains without true closure.”

Will grimaces. _Bringing up the dead sister — y’know, his motivation behind this whole treasure hunt?_ he thinks dryly. _Real smooth, Will. Real painless._

“You remind me of her, in some ways,” Dr. Lecter says unexpectedly.

Will relaxes, but his brow is still furrowed as he reaches for the jean shirt. “In what ways?”

“Your passion for history, for its preservation and protection. Your intelligence. Your focus.” Dr. Lecter’s tone grows a little lighter. “Your admiration of George Washington, however, remains your own.”

Will rolls his eyes, but finds himself smiling as he shrugs on the shirt. “Are you making fun of me, Dr. Lecter?”

“Never.” Again, Dr. Lecter sounds disconcertingly sincere. “Us historians are all partial to our own favorite figureheads of history, especially where the American Revolution is concerned.”

“What’s _your_ favorite, then?” Will asks.

“Tadeusz Kościuszko,” Dr. Lecter answers without hesitation.

Will lifts his eyebrows. “Well, you went for the obscure one,” he comments. “But he’s no less important. Without his defenses, the Continental Army wouldn’t have achieved the victory at Saratoga that they did.”

“They would not have,” Dr. Lecter agrees. He sounds pleased that Will knows who he’s talking about. “But my fondness for Kościuszko extends beyond his tactical feats or his nationality or his democratic beliefs. Had he not told his physician, my grandfather’s great-grandfather, of the last surviving clue to the treasure, we would not be here today.”

Will pauses halfway through rolling up his sleeves. “That’s a long time to investigate a single clue,” he says, surprised. “And even so, your family — you now — were certain that the treasure existed and could be found, with that one clue?”

“More hope than certainty,” Dr. Lecter says. “I have more certainty, but I’ve had more time, more to show through building on those who came before me.” The shutters of the fitting room creak; he’s stepping out. “But there _were_ times when I doubted — and I still search in part because I want to know that the treasure isn’t just a fantasy of my head or heart.”

Will finishes rolling up his sleeves, shaking his head, but not in disbelief. “People don’t talk that way anymore, you know,” he comments.

“I know,” Dr. Lecter says. “But they think that way.”

 

Chiyoh switches buses twice — partly to get where she’s going, partly to avoid being followed — before she arrives at the storefront that Dr. Graham and Hannibal are standing outside of. Admittedly, it takes her a moment to recognize either of them.

“ _What_ are you wearing?” is the first thing out of her mouth. She can feel her nose wrinkling involuntarily as she looks at Hannibal’s outfit: the pale pink button-down under the zippered suede jacket, the fitted black track pants, the orange sneakers.

“Over nine hundred dollars’ worth of ‘modern urban fashion,’” Dr. Graham says snidely. “That jacket was half of it.”

Hannibal looks moderately offended, but more amused. “I appreciate the finer things in life, and this was the only ‘finer’ thing in that store,” he says, then turns to Chiyoh. “You succeeded with the cipher, then?”

“Yes,” Chiyoh says. She hands him the _Gettysburg Times_ crossword page.

Dr. Graham peers over Hannibal’s shoulder as they both read her handwritten notes. “Pass and Stow,” he says. “As in, John Pass and John Stow?”

“The foundry workers who recast the cracked bell ordered for the steeple of the old State House, better known today as Independence Hall,” Hannibal says. “And thanks to the nineteenth-century abolitionist publications which adopted it as a symbol, that perpetually cracking bell is better known today as the Liberty Bell.”

Chiyoh sighs. _They make this seem too easy._ “What about the other details?”

Hannibal pours over the page again. “‘The vision to see the treasured past’... there must be another way to read the map,” he muses.

“Another map?” Chiyoh asks. “Or the Declaration?”

“It better be just the Declaration,” Dr. Graham says. “If we have to steal the Constitution too, I’m losing my job for sure.”

Hannibal cracks a brief smile, then refocuses on the message below the crossword grid. “So the way to read the map comes as this ‘timely shadow passes in front of the house of Pass and Stow.’”

“So… a specific time?” Dr. Graham suggests.

“ _What_ time, then?” Chiyoh asks.

Hannibal thinks for a moment. “Chiyoh, do you still have that hundred-dollar bill I gave you this morning?”

Chiyoh retrieves it from her jacket pocket and hands it to him. Hannibal had given it to her for an emergency; in hindsight, she probably could have used it for the buses, but no one had noticed her riding without paying.

“You see, every series of the one hundred dollar bill since 1928 has featured an engraving of Independence Hall on the back, drawn from a painting done in the 1780s; I believe the artist was a friend of Benjamin Franklin’s,” Hannibal is saying to Dr. Graham. “Could you hold this for a moment?” He holds out the document case.

Dr. Graham nods and takes it. “Believe me, I’m not going anywhere at this point.”

(Another half-smile from Hannibal. Chiyoh wonders if he’s sleep-deprived again.)

“Now, I suspect that if we look at the clock tower depicted —” Hannibal holds the bill up to the light and squints at it “— we can find the time of that ‘timely shadow.’”

Chiyoh and Dr. Graham wait patiently.

After a moment, Hannibal speaks. “What time is it?”

Dr. Graham checks his watch. “Nearly three.”

Hannibal sighs and hands the bill back to Chiyoh. “The clock there reads 2:22,” he says. “We’ve missed it for today.”

Chiyoh smoothes the bill out and contemplates the engraving of Independence Hall. “No, we have not,” she says, an idea forming.

Both men look at her in confusion.

Chiyoh arches her brows, surprised and also pleased. “Do _I_ know something about American history that _you_ do not?” she asks.

“Apparently,” Hannibal says matter-of-factly. “What is it?”

“Daylight Savings Time.” Chiyoh proffers the bill to him with a smile. “The United States has only observed it since the end of World War I. If it is three in the afternoon today, in the 1780s, it would only be two.”

The men look at each other, and then back to her, astonished.

“You are welcome,” Chiyoh says. “Now, we should get to Independence Hall before Mason and his people get there first.”

Hannibal frowns. “Is Mason truly in Philadelphia?”

“I saw him as I was leaving the Franklin Institute,” Chiyoh says. “He did not see me, but Dr. Bloom did.”

“And she will assuredly inform him,” Hannibal says. “Alana takes her chosen loyalties seriously.” He starts off down the sidewalk, and Dr. Graham follows him.

Chiyoh brings up the rear with a purposeful stride, buoyed by her knowledge. “Do either of you know, by chance, who some credit as the first person to suggest a _version_ of Daylight Savings Time?” she asks.

“Benjamin Franklin,” the two of them chorus without turning around.

Chiyoh sighs. _And there, my moment ends._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Chiyoh's child accomplice is [Clarice Starling](https://cdn-images-1.medium.com/max/1200/1*0lhiVJBAYUpsiP891PTmig.jpeg) (I figured the lamb backpack would be a more obvious indicator than a clothing description).
> 
> Finding outfits for Hannibal and Will at Urban Outfitters on _some_ semblance of a budget was hellish and hilarious at the same time. Will's clothes are casual and semi-canon (and when I was doing my "shopping," all on sale or clearance), whereas Hannibal's look is more Mads "Adidad" Mikkelsen than Hannibal "The Classy Cannibal" Lecter.
> 
> • **Will's outfit:** [T-shirt](https://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/31677552_011_b?%24xlarge%24&hei=900&fit=constrain) / [Button-down](https://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/36428894b_001_d?%24xlarge%24&hei=900&fit=constrain) / [Jeans](https://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/41681263_106_b?%24xlarge%24&hei=900&fit=constrain) / [Sneakers](https://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/41432857_004_g?%24redesign-zoom-5x%24&hei=2175&fit=constrain)  
>  • **Hannibal's outfit:** [Button-down](https://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/42002733_064_b?%24xlarge%24&hei=900&fit=constrain) / [Jacket](https://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/39742069_025_d?%24xlarge%24&hei=900&fit=constrain) / [Track pants](https://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/38973228_001_b?%24xlarge%24&hei=900&fit=constrain) / [Sneakers](https://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/42593871_081_d?%24xlarge%24&hei=900&fit=constrain)
> 
> Thanks to [this infographic charting the evolution of the $100 bill](https://www.landmarkcash.com/100-dollar-bill.html), I learned that the engraving of Independence Hall wasn't part of the bill's design until 1928, which throws a real wrench into that particular _National Treasure_ clue, but eh ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. Also, it's debatable if Benjamin Franklin really was the first to suggest Daylight Savings Time, but you can read [this more-than-a-little-satirical letter of his](http://www.webexhibits.org/daylightsaving/franklin3.html) and decide for yourself.
> 
> Last, but not least: [the fascinating history of the Liberty Bell](http://www.ushistory.org/libertybell/).


	10. In which there is another clue and another chase.

After circling up countless stairs and ascending through multiple levels within the steeple of Independence Hall in dim to dimmer light, the midday sun is blinding as Hannibal throws open the hatch to the outside. Partially closing his eyes, he climbs up the rest of the way, then turns around to help Will up, as the document case is still slung over his shoulder and throwing him a bit off-balance on the ladder.

Chiyoh clambers up herself with ease. “If the Liberty Bell is on the grounds, which bell is this?” she asks.

“The Centennial Bell,” Hannibal says. “It was made for the United States’ one hundredth birthday in 1876.”

“It’s supposed to weigh thirteen thousand pounds, a thousand for each original colony.” Will eyes the massive bell as he inches his way around it. “It looks like it does.”

Hannibal checks his watch, and then looks out the window. It’s 3:20 PM, and the shadow of the steeple is stretching over the green slate roof below. The spindle and the weathervane crowning it fall on the brickwork between two arches.

Chiyoh points. “Do you want me to climb down?”

Hannibal eyes the distance from the steeple to the roof. It’s high, and probably not survivable, but he remembers seeing a door on the sixth (or fifth?) level that could lead right out there. “I can do it,” he says. “You and Will can go back down and rejoin the tour we came in with; I’ll catch up to you.”

Will nods and ducks down to get back to the hatch. “The signing room’s at the end of the tour; we’ll meet you there.”

Chiyoh looks between them, but then turns around and follows Will down the ladder. Hannibal goes last, closing and locking the hatch behind him.

After waiting for the others to get a head start, Hannibal retraces their path down, looking for the door he remembered. He finds it on the fifth level, locked with a padlock. Fortunately, the latch is brittle enough that it can be wrenched off with a good yank of the door handle.

Hannibal opens the door and climbs out on the roof of Independence Hall, then checks his watch. It’s now 3:22 PM, and the shadow cast above him seems sharper and clearer than ever.

Crouching down below the railings covered in peeling white paint, Hannibal hurries along the roof until he reaches the wall between the arches. He runs his hands over the brickwork, looking for any unevenly placed or irregularly shaped bricks. His fingers sink into a circular depression; when he takes his hand away, he sees a square and compass within the circle.

Hannibal reaches into his jacket pocket and flicks out Mason’s silver-handled pocket knife, stolen from him on the _Charlotte_ in what seems like a lifetime ago. He slips it between the bricks and carves away at the crumbling, dusty mortar surrounding the brick with the stamped symbol. Finally, he’s able to pry the brick out, and he looks into the hole left behind.

Nothing.

Disappointed, Hannibal looks down at the brick in his hand and notices that it’s hollow. Folding Mason’s knife and putting it away, he reaches inside and pulls out a lumpy, but light bundle wrapped in a worn handkerchief. Along one of the frayed corners, there’s a lopsided embroidered monogram in red thread: _A McN_

 _Andrew McNair,_ Hannibal realizes. _The custodian of the Continental Congress and the official bell ringer of the Liberty Bell._ He slips the brick back into place, his fingers again wedging in the circular indent with the square and compass. _And a Mason._

Keeping his eagerness in check, Hannibal carefully unwraps the handkerchief.

 

“Now in 1778, British troops...” The park ranger’s spiel fades as the tour dutifully files out behind him, leaving the signing room, with its paneled walls and its reconstructed desks and chairs, silent and empty — at least, apart from Will and Chiyoh.

Chiyoh stands still, but Will paces as he waits. _What’s taking Hannibal so long?_ he wonders, before realizing he’s called Dr. Lecter by his first name.

 _From Dr. Fell to Dr. Lecter to Hannibal… all in less than a day._ Will drums his fingers on the railing separating the seating of the Continental Congress from the approved walking area for tours. _Does he have any other aliases up his sleeve?_

 _And who is he, really?_ Will glances over at Chiyoh, still in place and unmoving. _If anyone would know, she probably would._

“So…” he says, trying to keep it light and casual. “How did you, uh, get involved?”

Chiyoh doesn’t look over. “With Hannibal or with the hunt for the Knights Templar treasure?”

Will frowns. “You and Hannibal are…?”

“Family friends,” Chiyoh says tightly.

“Ah,” Will says, shuffling his feet awkwardly. _Why am I relieved to hear that?_

“I served his aunt for many years.” Chiyoh’s still not looking at him, but staring pointedly at some distant detail of the wall. “I knew him and his sister since childhood.”

“Mischa?”

 _Now_ , Chiyoh turns her head. “Yes,” she says. “Mischa.”

“So…” Will ventures. “She was looking for the treasure before —?”

“Mischa trusted few with her investigations into the treasure, and save for Hannibal, she trusted me more than anyone.” Chiyoh’s usually cool gaze betrays some melancholy. “I was her research assistant then, and now, I am her brother’s.”

Will nods. “I — I see.”

Chiyoh is still looking at him; the directness of her stare is uncomfortable. “Hannibal has placed much trust in you, for knowing you for such a short time,” she says. “I would encourage you to not break that trust.”

Will blinks. “ _He_ trusts _me?_ ” _And here I am with_ my _trust issues of_ him.

“Better to say that he is intrigued by you, he enjoys your company, and he believes that you will help him in whatever way you can.” Chiyoh draws closer, with slow and measured steps. “I am curious: despite your initial threats, you have not attempted to report him to the authorities. Why is that?”

Will’s mouth drops open under her curious gaze. “I, ah —”

The wooden floor creaks under approaching footsteps, and Hannibal enters the signing room and strides towards them.

Saved from answering Chiyoh’s unexpected question, Will quickly turns toward Hannibal. “You found something?”

Hannibal smiles. “‘The vision to see the treasured past.’”

Hannibal removes his hand from his jacket pocket and holds out his find: a series of connected wire frames and arms with colored glass set in the loops. Will thinks that they look like a cross between early bifocals and 3D glasses.

“Benjamin Franklin invented something like these,” Will says, studying them. “Or… he invented _these_.”

“Very likely.” Hannibal puts them back in his pocket. “Let’s take out the Declaration. We’ll discover soon enough if it’s the sole map.”

Will unscrews the top of the document case and slides out the Declaration from the case, and then the plastic wrapping. “Chiyoh, can you help me?”

Chiyoh comes forward and takes the plastic wrapping, and she and Will pinch the top edge of the Declaration with the plastic as a barrier. Hannibal slowly unrolls it from the bottom edge.

Suddenly, Hannibal stops and exhales.

Will looks over at him. “What is it?”

Hannibal tears his eyes away from the Declaration and looks up. “The last time the Declaration was here, it was being signed,” he says, his voice tinged with wonder.

Will glances around the room and for a moment, he feels like he sees it as Hannibal does: still empty, but full of so much unseen history.

Chiyoh clears her throat. “Another tour will be coming through soon.”

Hannibal nods. “Let’s turn it over, then.”

The three of them gingerly do so.

Removing the bifocals from his pocket again, Hannibal puts them on with one hand and peers at the Declaration. Almost instantly, he jerks back in shock.

“What?” Will asks. “What is it?”

Hannibal takes off the bifocals and passes them to Will. His face seems to glow with renewed vigor. “Look at it,” he says. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Chiyoh moves her hand to the other edge of the Declaration. Will lets go and carefully slides the bifocals on. And then he looks down.

The back of the Declaration of Independence is transformed: no longer a blank parchment, but a glowing green image of a large cross, embellished with triquetras and crowned with an unfinished pyramid and the Eye of Providence. A banner is spread out over the arms, and Will squints to make out the words.

“‘Heere at the wall,’” he reads. “That’s with two ‘e’s.”

“A name, then?” Chiyoh asks. “Or a place?” She looks expectantly at Hannibal.

Hannibal is shaking his head. “Nothing readily comes to mind.”

Will takes off the bifocals and makes to put them away, but some movement outside the window catches his eye.

Chiyoh looks mildly surprised. “Today is not your day,” she remarks.

“Today’s not any of our days,” Will mutters, staring out the window. It’s hard to make out the faces of anyone in the crowd of tourists and locals passing by Independence Hall, but he would know that pineapple leaf-shaped shock of blonde hair anywhere. “Mason’s outside.”

Chiyoh’s and Hannibal’s heads instantly swivel towards the window.

“How did they find us?” Chiyoh demands, more of herself than anyone else. “I took every precaution in getting the cipher letters.”

“I know,” Hannibal says, beginning to roll up the Declaration of Independence. “But Mason has nearly unlimited resources and at least two intelligent advisors. We wouldn’t have stayed hidden for long.”

Will tucks the bifocals into the chest pocket of his shirt. “We’re not going to get out of here without being spotted.”

“We separate the lock from the key, then.” Hannibal slides the Declaration back into the plastic and hands it to Will. “You two take this, and I’ll take the case and the bifocals.” He plucks the bifocals out of Will’s pocket and tucks them in his jacket. “That way, if Mason or his people catch one of us, they only find a portion of the puzzle.”

Chiyoh nods in approval.

Will looks down at the Declaration of Independence, resting in his hands with only a flimsy sheaf of plastic to protect it. _I_ really _hope this doesn’t get bent._

“We’ll regroup at the car,” Hannibal is saying to Chiyoh. “Call if there’s an emergency.” He turns away.

“Like if we get captured or killed?” Will asks wryly.

Hannibal pauses. “Yes, that would be an emergency,” he agrees. “Take care.”  And with that, he leaves the signing room.

Will stares after him, his hands tightening ever so slightly around the Declaration. _I’ll try._

“He will lead them away while we make our escape.” Chiyoh brushes against his shoulder as she makes for the door. “Come on.”

Will nods, tucking the Declaration underneath his arm, just inside his denim shirt. He follows Chiyoh to the entrance, dodging around scattered ( _and scatter-brained_ ) tourists as he goes.

Chiyoh takes a sudden left as she exits Independence Hall, avoiding the crowds outside. Will follows her and briefly glances around. No sign of Mason, or the woman he’d seen in the van with him. _And it’s not like I’d know his other henchmen if I saw them; they were masked for a reason._

Suddenly feeling very paranoid, Will ducks his head and picks up the pace.

 

Hannibal leads his pursuers away from the grounds of Independence Hall, and then waits until he clears the four-way intersection to start running. Behind him, he hears horns honking, presumably as Chilton and Alana dodge their way through traffic.

The document case bounces against his back as he skids around a corner and startles a flock of pigeons into flight. Hannibal almost glances over his shoulder to check that the cap isn’t loose, but then remembers that the Declaration isn’t there.

He looks anyway, to keep up the illusion. Alana and Chilton are still sprinting down the sidewalk after him, the former a little more nimbly than the latter.

Hannibal flashes them a grin and then leaps forward with a burst of speed. _Keep focused_ , he thinks. _Keep them focused on you._

 

Will can’t see Chiyoh.

He’d had her in his sights just moments ago — or maybe she’d had _him_ in _her_ sights. After all, she _was_ the one who’d spotted the two burly men following them a couple blocks down from Independence Hall, grabbed his sleeve, and started running. Will had been half-dragged along the street, past cafés and clothing stores, until he’d been yanked through a doorway into an indoor market.

But somewhere in the throngs of people shopping for artisanal groceries, Chiyoh had lost her hold on his sleeve. And so, he’d lost her, and any sense of security he’d previously had.

 _At least I haven’t lost the Declaration,_ Will thinks sarcastically as he swivels his head, trying to get a glimpse of Chiyoh. All he sees is aisles upon aisles of meat and fish counters, with people sandwiched in between.

In the crowd, he sees a flash of a face: grimly set, with piercing eyes and a scar from cleft palate surgery. It’s one of the men that was chasing them.

Will makes a decision and he makes it fast. Shielding the Declaration with his arm, he vaults over the nearest meat counter and crouches down behind it.

“If you’re not a steak, you don’t belong here.”

Will glances up. The woman running this particular stand isn’t looking down at him, but straight ahead, as her hands deftly wrap up and tie two chicken breasts in paper for a departing customer. Her nametag says _Reba._

“I —” Will tries and fails to catch his breath; Chiyoh runs a hell of a lot faster than him. “I’m just trying to hide from my ex-boyfriend.”

Reba hadn’t looked particularly judgmental to begin with, but her face softens even further. “Then for the moment, you’re a steak,” she says.

Will exhales and nearly starts coughing. “Thank you.”

Reba smiles, then tilts her head and squares her shoulders. “Would you like something?”

Will frowns, then realizes that she’s talking to another customer. He peeks around the glass, and sees an unzipped leather jacket barely concealing a pistol.

 _Shit._ Will shrinks himself down to as small a size as he can manage.

“I said, would you like something?” Reba repeats, as politely as before.

The man grunts. “No. Thank you,” he says. His voice is more animal growl than human. With a start, Will recognizes it as belonging to the man who threw him in the catering truck: the one called Dolarhyde.

Will hears footsteps, and he checks the glass again. He sees only Dolarhyde’s hulking form vanishing into the crowd.

“Well,” Reba remarks. “Isn’t _he_ a charmer?”

 

Hannibal nearly runs into the iron-barred gate, shoving it out of his way with a squeal of disused hinges. He keeps barreling through the churchyard, dodging around and jumping over headstones.

Another shriek of hinges, and more running footsteps. “Dr. Lecter!”

Hannibal frowns. Just Chilton. _And where did Alana go, I wonder?_

He doesn’t have time to wonder long. He’s coming up to another gate, fast. Hannibal stops before he smashes into it, yanks it open, and then closes it behind him. He gives the gate another few tugs, just to make sure, and then keeps running. The headstones in this section of the graveyard are older, larger, more elaborate, and it takes a little more maneuvering to get around them.

Behind him, Chilton rattles at the second gate, and then lets out a groan when he realizes it’s stuck. Hannibal smiles.

Then the first shot rings out.

Hannibal dives behind the wide base of an obelisk, clutching at the document case. He peeks around, and sees Chilton standing outside the gate with a silenced pistol.

“You won’t kill me, Frederick,” he calls out tauntingly. “You don’t have the proper stuff for it.”

A second shot, and the gravestone next to him has a chunk taken out of the top. If Chilton won’t stop shooting, Hannibal can at least take comfort in the fact that he’s not exactly sniper material.

Hannibal hears receding footsteps and relaxes for an instant. Then a twig cracks nearby.

He whips his head around to see Alana creeping along the line of gravestones, another silenced pistol at her side. Hannibal crawls away, and then gets up and runs towards the open gate — and runs right into a very surprised Chilton.

Hannibal slams the document case into his throat, and runs, leaving Chilton gasping on the sidewalk. _Their flanking technique leaves something to be desired._

“Hannibal!” Alana sprints out of the gate and right past Chilton.

Hannibal picks up his speed.

 

Crouching behind a flower seller’s display — the fifth or sixth place around the market where Will had hidden from Dolarhyde in their cat-and-mouse game — he feels a hand on his shoulder and nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Only me,” Chiyoh says. “Get up; we need to leave.”

Will clambers to his feet, but keeps his head low. “Where were you?” he hisses.

“Hiding — in multiple places. Cordell is unfortunately thorough.” Chiyoh resumes her grip on his sleeve. “City Hall is not far, and the car is just beyond that. Come on.”

 

Hannibal can’t seem to shake Alana. He’s left her companion for her to trip over; he’s run through the street, zigzagging around parked cars and cars temporarily stopped in traffic; and now he’s climbing up a rickety fire escape and she _still_ shows no signs of stopping. She’s fired off a few shots — hers markedly more accurate than Chilton, but all still miss — but now she’s focusing solely on the pursuit.

Hannibal reaches the roof and starts to run across, easily passing from one house to another. The end of the row housing comes far too quickly, though, and he soon finds himself skidding on the shingles at the very edge.

There’s another fire escape just below him, surrounded by scaffolding; he thinks he passed it earlier. If he could just get down there and figure out where he is —

Behind him, he hears the click of a hammer.

Hannibal raises his hands and slowly turns around. Alana is behind him, pointing her pistol right at him.

“Give me the Declaration, Hannibal,” she says. “Please.”

“So you can give it to Mason?” Hannibal asks.

Alana’s mouth sets into a thin line. “I’m trying to help you, Hannibal,” she says. “It might not seem like it, but we _are_ on the same side.”

“A week ago, we _were_.”

“We still _are_.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows.

“ _Think_ , Hannibal,” Alana says. “Mason’s after the treasure for the money, Chilton’s with him for the fame, Cordell and Dolarhyde are with Mason because he pays them to be. Why do you think _I’m_ with them?”

“All of the above,” Hannibal says.

Alana sighs and tightens her grip on the pistol. “Are you going to keep insulting me, or are you going to give me the Declaration at some point?”

Hannibal slides the document case off his back. “Since you asked so politely initially, I’ll give it to you right now,” he says, and he throws it across the roofs.

The document case clatters against the shingles and starts to slide down. As Alana makes a dive to save it, Hannibal leaps for the fire escape.

 

The arcade leading out of City Hall’s courtyard to the street is far more crowded than Will could have anticipated. He’s slowed from a sprint to a run to a fast-paced jog as he tries to dodge around hordes of people with suits and briefcases with little success; even Chiyoh, far ahead of him before, is falling behind.

Unfortunately, that’s when Mason’s henchmen catch up to them.

They’ve just reached the end of the arcade when Chiyoh’s hand is abruptly ripped from his sleeve. Around him, people suddenly scatter, and Will turns around to see Dolarhyde and another, portlier man ( _Cordell, probably)_ dragging her backwards — or trying to, anyway.

Chiyoh slams her elbow into Cordell’s nose and it comes away bloody. “Go!” she yells. “Keep running!”

Will turns around and his foot goes off the curb. He falls, grazing a passing cyclist who nearly topples over on him, and hits the pavement, hard.

And the Declaration of Independence flies from his hands and rolls across the street, right down the crosswalk.

Will rolls over, groaning in pain and completely winded. From his view on the ground, he sees two shined shoes approaching from the other side of the street.

Grinning from ear to ear, Mason leans down and picks up the Declaration, dusting off the plastic. “For shame, Dr. Graham!” he says. “I thought special papers like these were supposed to be kept in special conditions to keep them _safe_.”

Will grits his teeth and gets to his feet, clutching at his side.

Mason wags his finger. “Ah-ah! I’d put you and Dr. Lecter in the ground myself, but until then, just stay _there_.” He whistles, loudly. “Gentlemen! We’re done here.”

Behind him, Cordell and Dolarhyde grudgingly release Chiyoh. They both jog past Will, across the street to Mason. Another man, one Will doesn’t recognize, approaches the group from down the street, huffing and puffing and rubbing at his throat; the dark-haired, pale woman from the catering van is nowhere to be seen.

“Toodle-oo, Dr. Graham!” Mason calls mockingly. “Withhold my regards from Dr. Lecter, would you?”

 

Hannibal’s nearly reached the car when Will comes up from behind him. He’s in rough shape: scraped up, panting, no sign of the Declaration under his arm.

Hannibal stops in his tracks. “What happened?”

Will plants his hands on his knees and leans over, trying to catch his breath. “Mason has it,” he manages. “He has the Declaration.”

Hannibal is shocked. “ _What?_ ”

Will curls his head into his chest, avoiding eye contact. “It was my fault,” he says. “Mason’s goons caught up with us, they grabbed Chiyoh, I turned around, and I fell and it —” He can’t even finish the sentence. “I — _I_ lost it.”

Hannibal stares up the street, into the distance. His vision blurs, and he quickly wipes at his eyes.

Will finally straightens up. His hands are shaking and his eyes are red. “Fuck,” he says quietly. “It’s literally my _job_ to protect the Declaration and I — _fuck._ ”

Hannibal grips both his shoulders and leans in. “It’s hardly your fault, Will,” he says, even though he’s not sure if he means it. “It’s Mason’s.”

Will exhales heavily and nods, but he looks unconvinced.

Hannibal looks around and suddenly realizes that there’s still an absence. “Where’s Chiyoh?”

“She got some blood on her clothes from fighting two of Mason’s people,” Will says. “She wanted to find a place to ditch them and then get something new. Said that if even one person had videoed the fight and put it on the Internet, she’d need a disguise to keep hiding from the FBI.”

Hannibal is a little more relieved. “We’ll wait for her back at the car, then.” He turns and starts walking down the street, his feet falling heavy on the sidewalk.

Will falls into step beside him. “Where’d the document case go?” he asks

“I was cornered and I had to use it as a decoy.” Hannibal pats his pocket, feeling the outline of the bifocals through the fabric. “Fortunately, we still have the glasses.”

Will frowns. “So... Mason has the map,” he says slowly, “but he still can’t see it.”

Hannibal smiles. “No. He cannot.”

Unexpectedly, Will laughs. “At least I didn’t lose those, too,” he says dryly.

“I’d rather Mason have the Declaration than the bifocals; as long as he’s searching for a way to read the map, he’s motivated to keep the document intact,” Hannibal says. “You remember what was on the back, correct?”

“‘Heere at the wall,’” Will says. “With two ‘e’s.” He glances over at him. “Still no idea of what it might mean?”

“I’m thinking about it,” Hannibal confesses.

Will shrugs. “Well, if _you’re_ having trouble figuring it out, I doubt Mason’s going to beat you to it.”

Hannibal smiles to himself; despite the loss of the Declaration, his mood is improving already. “I appreciate your faith, Will.”

Will nods and slows to turn down the next street. “Yours too, Hannibal.”

A slight smile still on his face, Hannibal follows him around the corner. In that moment, he realizes that it’s the first time that Will’s called him by his first name.

Then Hannibal stops.

The Bentley’s in sight, but a broad-shouldered man in a camel skin coat is leaning against the passenger door, as if he’s been expecting them.

“Dr. Lecter, Dr. Graham,” the man says, straightening up. “Seen the Declaration of Independence lately?”

Hannibal frowns. “And who might you be?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

The man flashes a badge: recognizable even at a distance as FBI. “Agent Jack Crawford, Art Crime Team. And you two are under arrest, so get your hands on the hood of your very easily traced car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used [this video tour of the Independence Hall tower](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Iaj8TMiqp8) as a loose visual reference for this chapter. I didn't even bother to chart the chase through Philadelphia, but fortunately, the aforementioned [Declaration Resources Project](https://declaration.fas.harvard.edu/blog/facts-nationaltreasure) already did that if you're interested in a nerdy, intensive jogging route.


	11. In which there is interrogation, revelation, and negotiation.

After Hannibal makes his statement, Agent Crawford leans back in his chair and rubs his chin. “Well,” he says after a moment. “Some story.”

“It’s no story,” Hannibal says. “But it _is_ what I told Agent Zeller over the phone before the Declaration was stolen.” He nods at the glass window of the interrogation room; he would be surprised if no other agents were observing.

“Before the Declaration was stolen _by you_ ,” Agent Crawford corrects pointedly.

“It would have been stolen by Mason Verger if I had not,” Hannibal says. “I stole the Declaration to protect it, and I did it alone. And now Mason has it, and he will not be as careful with it as I was.”

Agent Crawford looks at him, dubious. “That’s a big accusation,” he says. “Mason Verger, more-money-than-God slaughterhouse magnate, stealing the Declaration of Independence to find a treasure buried by the Freemasons?”

“Mason has an unsavory face beneath his public mask,” Hannibal says. “Dr. Margot Verger, his sister, works at the National Archives. If you talked to her during your initial investigation, you would know all about it.”

Agent Crawford snorts. “The only man Dr. Verger pointed us to was you, Dr. Lecter. Didn’t say a thing about her brother.”

 _So Margot is Mason’s unwilling accomplice after all._ Hannibal had expected that, but it’s still hard to hear. _And after all she did to shake him off..._

“What about Mason’s accomplices?” he asks, shifting the subject. “Surely they’re of some concern to some branch of the FBI, seeing as most are unconvicted criminals.”

Agent Crawford crosses his arms. “Enlighten me.”

Hannibal ticks them off on his fingers, keenly feeling the cold handcuffs around his wrists. “Cordell Doemling, medical license revoked for unethical surgical experimentation. Francis Dolarhyde, ex-Army and suspected arsonist and murderer. Frederick Chilton, sued for psychiatric malpractice so he fled to another field of study where he remained just as inept. And —”

“Dr. Alana Bloom,” Agent Crawford finishes. “Professor of pre-Columbian and colonial American history at Georgetown University — and FBI informant.” He glares across the table. “And she was doing a damn good job until _you_ got involved.”

Hannibal stiffens. “ _Pardon?_ ” is what he manages to say.

Sensing he has his attention, Agent Crawford dives in. “About a year ago, Mason Verger donated a Muzo emerald, one of the largest ever found, to the National Museum of Natural History. State of Florida contended that it came from the wreck of a seventeenth-century Spanish galleon that sank off the Keys; they’d claimed title to what had been found of it, so if Verger had been diving there and finding more —” He shrugs. “Let’s just say it would be one drawn-out court battle. Problem was, there was no proof that Verger obtained the emerald illegally.

“That’s when Dr. Bloom came to our attention. Turns out she’d been one of a _team_ of treasure-hunting advisors to Verger: not only for the galleon wreck, but for other lootings of archaeological sites in the States and abroad. She was also the only team member who remained on Verger’s payroll after all was said and done — besides Dr. Chilton, who you already mentioned.”

Hannibal scoffs. “And you assumed Mason trusted her?” he asks. “‘Trust’ is a word not in Mason’s vocabulary.”

“We know Mason’s sister does,” Agent Crawford says simply. “We don’t know the depth of her involvement or where her loyalties are, but Dr. Verger may have provided information on stateside sites for her brother. And, whether she knows it or not, she let slip a lot of that information to Dr. Bloom.”

Hannibal closes his eyes briefly. _Oh, Margot… all this time, and Mason still won’t leave you be._ He sighs. _And now you’re a pawn in a different game entirely._

“How much did Alana tell you about this treasure, then?” he asks. “If you don’t believe my story, she can certainly corroborate it.”

Agent Crawford waves a hand dismissively. “I’m less interested in this Templar treasure than what you did to _get_ to that treasure,” he says. “And I haven’t even gotten to how you screwed all _my_ plans over.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows.

Agent Crawford huffs. “My team has spent a year building a solid case against Mason Verger. When Dr. Bloom called me last night after no communication for nearly six months and told me that Mason had tried to steal the Declaration of Independence, failed, and was going to try and steal it back from _you_ —” he points at Hannibal “— I thought we could turn this into a win. Nail Mason for the Declaration theft and then pile on all the other charges.”

Hannibal thinks of Alana on the rooftop, asking for the Declaration. _It might not seem like it, but we_ are _on the same side,_ she’d said. _Why do you think_ I’m _with them?_

( _Alana’s loyalties always are aligned to what she believes to be the most morally pure cause_ , he thinks dryly. _Justice and blindness are equally in her nature._ )

“In a way, you have what you want, then,” Hannibal says. “Mason has the Declaration, and Alana remains undercover and undetected. So why am I still here?”

“Because you were the one who stole the Declaration in the first damn place!” Agent Crawford exclaims. “You _and_ Dr. Graham!”

Amidst his growing exasperation, Hannibal feels a surge of satisfaction. _So they have nothing on Chiyoh, and the FBI hasn’t found her. Excellent._ “I thought I made it clear before, Agent: Dr. Graham had nothing to do with the theft,” he says.

“DNA evidence says otherwise.” Agent Crawford drums his fingers on the edge of the table. “Tell me how Dr. Graham was involved, or you’re getting perjury added to your rap sheet.”

 

“So what was the deal with the phone?”

Will gapes at the FBI agent across the table, confused. “The phone?”

“ _Your_ phone,” the agent says. She’d introduced herself as Agent Katz, and her gaze is keen and uncomfortably direct, but not intimidatingly so. “You know, the one you tried to flush down the toilet at Dr. Lecter’s niece’s house?”

Will sighs. He’d suspected his phone probably wouldn’t have gone through the pipes, but at least he’d tried. “What about it?”

“I’m just wondering about the texts you sent out before you filled up the phone with water.” Agent Katz places a plastic evidence bag with his phone inside on the table. “As far as the question of your involvement goes, this is… pretty much the only thing that could answer that question for sure.”

Will frowns. “You… don’t think I was involved?” he asks slowly.

Agent Katz chuckles, shaking her head. “Your fingerprints might have been all over the access keypads, but anyone who can Google can lift a fingerprint convincing enough to pass a scanner. _And_ we’ve got eyewitnesses and video who place you in the Rotunda at the time the Declaration was stolen.” She taps the phone. “What we _don’t_ have is what you did next”

Will hesitates. He has an opportunity: he _could_ deny everything, pin it all on Hannibal out of selfish self-preservation and job security. Then he wonders if Hannibal is shifting away the blame as well — or taking it all for himself.

 _Maybe the former,_ he guesses, but he’s unsure even about that.

 

“Dr. Graham was not involved knowingly,” Hannibal says. “I lifted his fingerprints and used them to gain access to the vault. Then he tried to stop me from getting away with the Declaration, and I brought him along with me. I thought his expertise with the document would be useful.” It’s a sufficiently solid, yet satisfyingly vague story, if he says so himself.

“‘Brought him along,’” Agent Crawford repeats flatly. “Abduction by another name, Dr. Lecter. Call me crazy, but I can’t imagine the Charters of Freedom Custodian being pleased about the Declaration of Independence getting stolen.”

Hannibal shrugs elegantly. “Of course not, but once I told him about the treasure, he seemed a bit more accepting of the theft.” _Or does he still resent me for it?_

“Right,” Agent Crawford says dryly. “Because stealing a national treasure is a-okay when there’s even more treasure to be found.”

Hannibal looks at him coolly. _Clearly he hasn’t debriefed with Alana as much as he should — otherwise, he wouldn’t be doubting the treasure’s existence._ “My primary motivation was stopping Mason from stealing it,” he says, “not finding the treasure.”

“And yet, once you had it, you ran chemical tests on the Declaration, discovered a hidden cipher on the back, stole a car and drove to Philadelphia to crack the cipher, and then you trespassed on and vandalized government property to find _these_ —” Agent Crawford taps the bifocals “— and presumably, this treasure after that.” His tone is as skeptical as ever. “As altruistic as you claim to be, Dr. Lecter, it seems to me like finding the treasure was still a pretty big motivation for you.”

Hannibal can’t say that Agent Crawford is wrong. But he’s less focused on that and more focused on the bifocals.

As Crawford’s been talking, he’s been unconsciously fiddling with the bifocals, pressing one of the levers up and down with a finger. As he does so, the front lens, tinted blue, goes up to reveal a green lens behind it — and through that lens, Hannibal’s view of the papers underneath the glasses slightly changes.

 _There’s even more to the map,_ Hannibal realizes. _The clue was incomplete._

 

Will finally decides on what to say.

“I texted my dogsitter and my co-worker to tell them I was okay and to make arrangements with each of them for — for what they should do if I didn’t come home or into work in a few days,” he says. “Then I remembered that my phone could be traced, and I tried to destroy it discreetly.”

Agent Katz nods like she understands, but her brow is furrowing. “You didn’t try to call the police?”

Will shakes his head. _That_ , he can’t lie about.

Agent Katz chews on her lower lip. Then: “Can I ask why you didn’t?”

“I don’t know, can you?” Will asks. “I thought this was an interrogation.”

Agent Katz laughs. “‘Interrogation’ is a harsh word. I’m just trying to figure out the truth, because frankly? I’m getting the feeling that the truth of this whole caper is a _lot_ stranger than whatever alibi you could feed me.”

Will shrugs. “Yeah,” he confesses, “it really is.”

“So, let’s try and keep this simple,” Agent Katz says. “I’ll ask some questions, you say yes or no, and then you fill in the rest with context.” She looks him dead in the eye. “Did you knowingly help Dr. Lecter steal the Declaration?”

“I thought we already established that I didn’t,” Will says.

Agent Katz cracks a smile. “Litmus test.” She rests her elbows on the table. “Next: did you, at any point, try to stop Dr. Lecter from stealing it?”

“Yes.”

“Next: did you go with Dr. Lecter willingly, knowing that he had stolen the Declaration and _why_ he stole it?”

Will inhales, and thinks. “No?” he tries. “Not at first. But later… yes. Yes.”

Agent Katz cocks her head. “You sound confused about that.”

Will snorts. “Believe me, I was. But… I don’t know; it makes sense to me now. Not everything, but enough so that it did make sense for me to stay with Dr. Lecter. And make sure the Declaration wasn’t harmed,” he adds. “And… I know it might have put me into trouble with you and the FBI, but I —” He pauses, gathering his thoughts.

“All things considered, I don’t really regret how this turned out,” he finishes, and for the first time since he entered this room, Will feels like he’s saying something in all honesty.

 

Agent Crawford’s voice breaks through Hannibal’s realization. “I’ll be plain with you, Dr. Lecter: people are going to go for prison for this, and one of those people will probably be you.” He takes his finger off the bifocals, and the blue lens slides silently back into place.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. “And Mason won’t?”

“Oh, Mason’s still my priority,” Agent Crawford says. “But you stole the Declaration first, so you’re up there too.” He steeples his fingers. “Your options:

“Door number one: you go to prison for a very long time for all kinds of things.

“Door number two: you help us get back the Declaration of Independence and get Mason for all the things _he’s_ done. You still go to prison, but your sentence is shorter, and _possibly_ , you feel better about yourself.”

Hannibal mulls it over. Then: “Is there a door that doesn’t lead to prison?”

Agent Crawford chuckles humorlessly. “Someone’s got to go to prison, Dr. Lecter. You, Mason, you _and_ Mason —” He shrugs. “I’ll take who I can get.”

“Either way, I go to prison,” Hannibal says flatly. “The length of the sentence won’t make it any easier or harder; I can wait it out.” A muscle in his jaw is twitching. “So tell me, Agent Crawford: besides ‘civic duty,’ is there any convincing reason I should choose the second door?”

Agent Crawford stares at him for a moment. Then, from underneath the bifocals and his stack of papers, he produces a thin file folder.

Hannibal frowns. “What is that?”

“ _Who_ is that, you mean,” Agent Crawford says. “I’ll tell you who it is, Dr. Lecter: it’s the man who I think killed your sister.”

The interrogation room is suddenly sucked dry of all air as Hannibal stares at Agent Crawford, aghast and angry at his presumption.

Agent Crawford spreads his hands in an apologetic gesture. “First rule of hunting a fugitive: you look for the family. And your sister — well, I couldn’t help but notice she was mixed up in what you’re mixed up in now.” He slides the folder towards Hannibal. “I used to be in the Behavioral Analysis Unit before I became head of Art Crime. After I talked to your niece, I took the liberty of doing a little digging on your behalf.”

Hannibal slides it back without opening it. “I already know who killed Mischa,” he says coldly. “And the court found him not guilty.”

“You’re an intelligent man, Dr. Lecter; I find it hard to believe that you _didn’t_ suspect something,” Agent Crawford says. “Vladis Grutas — human trafficker, dealer in arms and black market art — _not_ guilty of murder? The only reason he walked on the charges he was brought up on before your sister’s murder is because the key witness had acid poured down her throat; he’s no stranger to outplaying the prosecution.”

“I know that, too,” Hannibal says through his teeth. “But it’s over. That — _beast_ can’t be tried again, not for Mischa’s murder. And —” He exhales and pinches the bridge of his nose, only to realize that he is shaking. “I’m done with him. I’m _done_.”

“Without getting justice for your sister?” Agent Crawford asks.

Hannibal stares at him balefully. “Mischa will have her justice when the Knights Templar treasure is found,” he spits out. “Then, and _only_ then.”

The long, deafening silence that follows is broken by the door opening. A tall, gangly agent with dark hair enters, a ringing cell phone in his hand. Hannibal then realizes that it’s _his_ cell phone.

Agent Crawford turns around. “ _What_ , Zee?”

Shrinking back, the agent holds the phone out at arm’s length. “Caller I.D. says it’s Mason Verger,” he says. “We’re all set to tap, sir.”

Without hesitation, Crawford takes the phone and hands it over to Hannibal.

Unlocking it as best he can with his handcuffed hands, Hannibal answers it. “Why are you calling?” he asks irritably.

“Oh, _touchy_.” Mason’s nasal drawl is magnified in annoyance over the phone speaker. “Someone’s having a bad day, and it isn’t me.”

“You have the Declaration. I’m chained to a desk,” Hannibal says, still glaring at Agent Crawford as he speaks. “What more do you want?”

“To meet you on the flight deck of the U.S.S. _Intrepid_.” Mason pauses. “You _do_ know where that is, right? I hope you do, for your sake.”

Hannibal sighs. “New York City.”

“Gold star, Dr. Lecter!” Mason crows. “Meet me there at ten tomorrow morning. I’ll bring the Declaration; you bring the X-ray specs; we’ll have a little look-see at the back and then we’ll go on our merry ways.”

Hannibal stiffens. “How do you know about the bifocals?” he asks. “And what makes you think I’ll arrive and just trust in your goodwill?”

Agent Crawford glances down towards the table, where the bifocals are resting, and then back up at Hannibal.

Mason snorts dismissively. “Details, details. But _this_ detail is important: I only ever said I was going to _borrow_ the Declaration. So, as a gesture of my _excellent_ will, you can have it back after our little rendezvous.” He chortles. “You want the pipe from the _Charlotte_ , too? I tried to smoke with it, but I guess meerschaum isn’t as miraculous a material as Papa said it was.”

Hannibal thinks. He doesn’t have much choice right now, so he’ll make the only choice he can. “I’ll meet you,” he says. “Bring the Declaration and the pipe.”

“Oh, goodie!” Mason exclaims gleefully. “Oh, and if the FBI agents listening in on this call don’t want a surprise office party with some Founding Fathers confetti, you and the good Dr. Graham come alone.”

Before anyone can say anything more, the line goes dead.


	12. In which there is a fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.

**_New York City, New York_ **

It’s five minutes to ten when Crawford slides on his headset. “Take positions,” he orders. “Talk to me, Katz; what’s your status?”

Katz’s voice crackles through, and Crawford can barely hear her over the whirring of helicopter blades. “Crow’s nest in position,” she reports. “Perimeter looks normal. Air’s clear; no water traffic around the _Intrepid._ ”

“Port side quiet as well,” Price responds. He’s stationed at the monitors in the back of the surveillance van, in front of where Crawford is starting to pace.

Zeller’s microphone comes on with a burst of static. “I’ve got a visual on Graham and Lecter; they just got on the flight deck.”

“Don’t lose sight of them,” Crawford says. “Graham, Lecter: stay with the program, now.”

A snort. “I hope your agents are all four feet tall and wearing little scarves, otherwise Mason’s going to know you’re here,” Dr. Graham remarks.

Crawford frowns, then sees the screen Price is pointing to. Graham and Lecter just walked past a disorderly column of Cub Scouts dashing away from their harried den leaders.

“Not the time for sarcasm,” Crawford warns. “As soon as Verger shows you the Declaration, we’ll move in. Let _us_ handle it this time.”

“You know, I like fishing, Agent Crawford,” Dr. Graham says wryly, “but it never works out so well for the bait.”

“Jack?” Katz cuts in again before Crawford can tell Dr. Graham where to shove it. “We’ve got some traffic incoming. Looks like a sightseeing helicopter.”

Crawford frowns. “Jimmy, get an eyeball on the chopper,” he says. “FAA flight plans and authorization records, too. If it’s not Verger or some damn tourist group, I want to know who.”

“Wilco.” Price’s fingers start flying over the keyboard.

Crawford rubs his temples. “Lecter, you with me?” he asks.

“I’m not against you, if that’s what you’re asking.” Dr. Lecter’s cool, clipped tone makes his statement anything but convincing.

Suddenly, static explodes over the line, and the audio levels of the microphones go haywire on the display.

Crawford stops pacing. “Jimmy, tell me that wasn’t Lecter’s or Graham’s mike.”

“Got some bad news for you, Jack,” Price says in a cheerfully grim voice, pointing at the screen. “It was both of them.”

 

“Will. Dr. Lecter.”

On hearing his name, Will turns his head around, shielding his eyes from the sun. A woman in a wide-brimmed sun hat is standing just behind him and Hannibal. She has one hand just inside her purse, to hide the frequency jammer she’s holding.

Will peers under the floppy brim of the hat. “ _Margot_?” he exclaims. “What are you doing here? And — wait, you know Hannibal?” he asks, looking between the two of them. _When I introduced them at the gala, he was still going by “Dr. Fell”..._

Hannibal and Margot exchange side-eyed glances.

“It’s a long story,” Hannibal says. “And it’s not important right now.”

“Agreed,” Margot says crisply. “ _This_ thing —” she shakes her purse “— will only work for so long. And I need to pass along Mason’s message before the FBI starts listening in again.” She gives them a sour smile. “But you’ll ‘throw off such Government’ soon enough.”

Hannibal frowns in recognition. _(Of course he recognizes it; it’s from the Declaration of Independence,_ Will thinks. _But… does it mean something else to him?)_

“So... you’re working with Mason now?” Will asks slowly.

Margot sighs. “Wasn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my weekend,” she says dryly. “But as usual, Mason’s got plans for me.” Her grip on the frequency jammer tightens. “The only thing he doesn’t have are you two.”

Will looks over at Hannibal, calm and collected as ever. Then he looks back at Margot. “Then how do we get out of FBI custody and to Mason?”

There’s a whirring of helicopter blades from above, and a sightseeing helicopter swoops low over the deck. Tourists scatter and cower and cover their ears; out of the corner of his eye, Will sees the plainclothes FBI agent that’s been following him and Hannibal ever since they boarded the _Intrepid_ dive behind the snack bar.

Margot brings up her other hand to hold onto her hat and raises her voice. “Go to the starboard observation point behind the F-16,” she says. “Then comes the tricky part...”

 

“What the hell is going on out there?” Crawford shouts over his headset, trying to ignore the din of staticky, distorted voices coming from the computers. “Katz, give me an update!”

“The helicopter entered the _Intrepid_ ’s airspace!” Even yelling, Katz’s voice can barely be heard. “It’s hovering over the flight deck!”

Despite himself, Crawford is feeling the beginnings of alarm. “Zee, what are Graham and Lecter doing?”

“They’re —” more noise interference, probably from the helicopter “ — heading — stern — both of them —”

“Is Mason Verger there?” Crawford demands.

“Negative, Jack.” Zeller’s voice comes back in, loud and clear. “Helicopter’s pulling up, by the way. Lots of people made a run for it when it looked like it would touch down; maybe Verger was among them.”

Crawford frowns. Something isn’t right here — _so_ many things don’t feel right about this — but he has to keep this together for as long as he can. “Move in on Graham and Lecter, Zee,” he orders. “If Verger approaches, you get on that mic.”

“Aye, aye,” Zeller says.

“Agent Crawford.”

Crawford is surprised and suspicious to hear Dr. Lecter on the channel. “Dr. Lecter?” he asks. “What’s going on out there? We lost visual for a bit.”

At the computer, Price is bringing up the cameras on the U.S.S. _Intrepid_ ’s flight deck and zooming in towards the stern. Graham and Lecter are standing at an observation point by an F-16, leaning against the railings.

“We’ve found a third door, Agent Crawford.” On the screen, Lecter smiles at Graham as Graham puts his arm around Lecter’s shoulders. “And we’re taking it.”

Price looks back at Crawford, confused. “What’s he talking about?”

Crawford’s alarm spikes. “Move in!” he yells into his microphone. “Zee, move in!”

The words are barely out of his mouth when Graham hoists himself and Lecter over the railing.

Price’s mouth drops open. “Holy sh —”

The agent is suddenly interrupted by a tremendous _splash._ On the screen, the audio levels of Graham’s and Lecter’s microphones fizzle out into waves of static.

Crawford swore under his breath. “Jimmy, get a diving team and the Coast Guard as fast as possible; tell them to pursue Graham and Lecter at their own risk,” he orders. “Zee, stay on the deck; they’ve got to resurface at some point. Katz, are Graham or Lecter visible?”

“Jack, it’s the Hudson. Nothing’s visible.”

Crawford lets out a long sigh and puts his head in his hands. “Lecter set us up,” he mutters, too low for even Price to hear him. “He set us the fuck up.”

 _And we_ still _don’t have the Declaration of Independence._

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Still scowling, Crawford pulls it out to see a text from an unfortunately familiar unknown number.

 _Sorry, Jack,_ the text reads, _but Mason’s got bigger plans for Hannibal than you._

_The bound man continues to convulse and cough even after the damp cloth is removed from his face. “I — I know nothing!” he gasps, his breath rattling. “I know nothing; I — I’ve done nothing —!”_

_“Incorrect.” Hannibal taps his foot besides the inclined table. “The jury may have taken your employer’s money and decided you were not guilty, Mr. Grutas, but there is no bribing me.” He crouches down, gets in close to the other man’s face. “You killed her. You_ are _guilty.”_

 _Grutas laughs, but it turns into a weak hacking sound. Tears well in his eyes, whether from fear or pain or anger or all three emotions. “I — I didn’t kill her,” he finally manages. “At least not whoever you_ think _I killed. So let me fucking go.”_

_Hannibal slaps the damp cloth back down over Grutas’ toothless snarl. He looks up, ignoring Grutas’ struggling, and nods._

_Chiyoh pulls up another bucket of water from the cistern. Her face like stone, she pours the water in a cruel, controlled stream down on Grutas’ face._

_When Hannibal rips off the cloth again, Grutas is choking and coughing, his scarred face completely drenched. His wrists and ankles are red and raw with chafing from where he’s pulled against the metal shackles._

_“You killed her,” Hannibal repeats. There is a coldness in his bones, some marrow-deep rage untapped until now. “Say her name.”_

_Despite the heaving of his chest, Grutas closes his mouth stubbornly._

_Hannibal slaps him across the face, hard. Then he comes back in for a punch._

_Grutas sputters through the blood streaming into his mouth from his broken nose. “Mischa!” he howls. “Mischa Lecter!”_

_“And who told you to kill her?” Hannibal demands._

_Grutas shakes his head, thrashing against the leather strap around his neck. “I don’t know; I don’t fucking know!”_

_Hannibal reaches for the cloth again._

_“No, no, no, no, put that away! Put that fucking away!” Grutas shrieks. He’s hyperventilating now, his breaths short and shallow and insufficient. “I’m telling you, I don’t know!”_

_Chiyoh puts down her bucket. Hannibal reluctantly lowers his hand._

_“I never know who’s charging for a hit, just that they’re charging me!” Grutas insists, his voice ragged and hoarse. “There was a briefcase — full of hundreds — a note that said they could make me richer than — than some old-ass king — and — and a name. And a motel room number. And a date.” His eyes are bulging and bloodshot. “That’s all. That’s all I know, I fucking swear.”_

_Frowning deeply, Hannibal looks up at Chiyoh. She wears the same expression._

_Grutas pulls at his shackles again. “Let me go, okay? Let me go right fucking now, or I_ swear _I’ll —”_

_Hannibal stuffs the damp cloth in Grutas’ mouth and stalks over to Chiyoh. “Well?” he asks pointedly. “What does your mercy tell you?”_

_Chiyoh crosses her arms. “I do not know if we can safely let him go,” she admits. “Even if the law involves itself, there is always the chance of retaliation from the mob.”_

_“What would you do, then?”_

_Chiyoh stares back at him with iron eyes. “Why do you ask me when you already have decided what to do?”_

_Hannibal looks back at Grutas, lying mute on the table, his ragged clothes smelling of blood and rotting fish. It’s a far cry from how he looked in court: his tattoos covered by a secondhand suit jacket, his hair trimmed, his smile plastic and put-on._

_Then he thinks of Abigail — how she sobbed on the witness stand, getting tears all over the dress she wore to her mother’s funeral — how she screamed and struggled as he carried her out of the courtroom after the verdict was read — how she scribbled out the eyes of Grutas’ pictures in the newspapers the next day, her face bloodless and her clenched fists wanting blood._

_He thinks of his stoicism, and above all, his silence._

_Hannibal is done with both of them._

_Grutas has stopped thrashing, his limbs limp, but his eyes are still wide with terror as Hannibal grabs the bucket and approaches the table. He places the bucket on the floor, then turns to the tray of instruments nearby and picks up the carving knife._

_Grutas’ screams are muffled by the gag as Hannibal slices shallowly into his wrist. Chiyoh turns her head away as arterial blood pumps out into the bucket below. Without binding the wound, Hannibal moves to the left ankle, then the right ankle, then the right wrist: methodically slicing and draining._

_By the time Hannibal removes the cloth from Grutas’ mouth and spreads it over his face again, Grutas is twitching and nearly insensible with agony. But when Hannibal lifts the bucket of blood and pours it over his face, Grutas thrashes harder than he has ever done, his gurgles turning into strangled howling as his shackles cut into his wounds._

_Then Hannibal makes one final cut, deeper than those before: right across Grutas’ throat._

Hannibal is jolted awake by all the river water in his lungs being involuntarily, violently coughed up. Feebly rolling over on his side, his throat scraped dry, he thinks back on all his hours spent in the Olympic-sized pool at Johns Hopkins — training for his naval diving certification — searching in vain for the wreck of the _Charlotte_ off the coast of France — and wonders wryly where his swimming ability has gone since then.

“Easy, easy.” Will’s voice, low and soothing, and then Will’s hands on his shoulders, carefully manipulating him into a recovery position. “Sorry about practically throwing you into the Hudson, but we had to get out of there. Are you okay?”

Hannibal takes a mental inventory: possible bruised ribs, a far amount of water in his left ear, aching chest. Then he pats his jacket pocket and finds the indent where the bifocals are. “I will be,” he says. “Is — is Chiyoh here?”

His vision is blurred and his eyes sting, but he sees a small, dark figure kneel down beside him. It’s Chiyoh, in a black wetsuit with a diving mask pulled up on her forehead.

Hannibal exhales in relief, and then coughs up some more water. “It’s good to see you,” he says weakly. “When Margot quoted the Declaration, I feared the worst. And the FBI —”

“An agent was impounding the Bentley when I returned with my new disguise, but he did not see me.” Chiyoh sits back on the balls of her feet. “So I left and got in touch with Mason.”

Hannibal frowns, perplexed, but then it dawns on him. “You engineered all this?”

“Turns out helping someone escape federal custody is a criminal act,” Chiyoh says matter-of-factly. “The prospect of committing such an act did not faze Mason, especially not when I told him what he was missing.”

Pushing himself upright, Hannibal realizes he’s wrapped up in a bathrobe and lying on a cot. He hears a motor roaring somewhere behind him and water rushing all around them, but it hurts to turn his head and locate the sounds. “Where are we?”

“Coast Guard rescue boat.” Margot enters the cabin, taking off her sun hat as she squeezes through the narrow door. “We commandeered it and had it idling beside the _Intrepid_ before you hit the deck, let alone before the call went out for first responders and law enforcement _._ Thanks to Chiyoh, we whisked you two out of the water before the real Coast Guard showed up.”

Hannibal carefully swivels his head towards the front. Chilton is at the wheel, eyes fixed on the shoreline as he ignores Dolarhyde breathing down his neck.

“There are dry clothes in the bathroom,” Will says. He’s wearing a plaid flannel and a different pair of jeans, and his hair is bunching up into damp curls. “There’s also a shower if you want to wash the Hudson off you, but it’s a little cramped.”

Hannibal nods gratefully; he can’t remember the last time he took a shower. “Where’s Mason?” he asks Margot.

“On shore and waiting for our signal,” Margot says tightly. She glances over at him. “Him and Cordell and Bloom will meet us where you say to.”

Hannibal gets up, his bare feet shaking and slipping on the rocking floor; Will supports him on one side, Chiyoh on the other. He shakes away his bloody memories; his body might have been temporarily weakened, but his mind is as sharp as ever.

Especially now that he’s finally figured out the clue.

“Wall Street and Broadway,” Hannibal says. “Tell Mason we’ll meet him there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW** : Flashback involving torture (more specifically: waterboarding and knives)
> 
> (My only comment on the practical accuracy of such an escape is: considering what canon!Hannibal and Will have survived, a jump off an aircraft carrier into the Hudson River is small potatoes.)


	13. In which a team of rivals is formed.

True to what Margot had told them, Mason is waiting at the corner of Wall Street and Broadway beside a limousine that’s taking up three parking spaces by the curb. “Dr. Lecter, Dr. Graham! I trust you had a pleasant trip,” he says, holding out his hand with a toothy smile. “No broken bones? Fall like that could kill a man.”

Will eyes Mason’s outstretched hand, but doesn’t shake it. “No, it was fun,” he says dryly. “You should try it sometime.”

Mason cackles, then holds out both his hands to his side. The pallid, dark-haired woman standing behind him places their red leather document carrying case in one hand and an embossed metal box in the other.

Mason then proffers them to Hannibal. “The Declaration of Independence and the meerschaum pipe,” he proclaims. “All yours.”

Hannibal eyes them. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Mason confirms. “I _know_ you always keep your promises, Dr. Lecter.” He gives them to Hannibal, and then claps his hands. “Now! Where’s my treasure?”

“ _Your_ treasure?” Will repeats, incredulous.

Mason looks back and forth from Will, to Hannibal, to Chiyoh. “Oh, you forgot to tell him?” he asks Chiyoh in mock-surprise. Then, to Hannibal: “When she called me up to ask for help with her little jailbreak plan, she promised me the treasure would be _exclusively_ mine.”

Both Hannibal and Will turn towards Chiyoh. She meets their gaze, but there is a bitterly resigned look in her eye. Will knows that look: unhappy compromise.

Hannibal speaks then. “The treasure’s right here.” He makes a sweeping gesture with the document case, over sidewalks and cars stuck in traffic and hordes of pedestrians, all wrapped up in the noise of New York. “When we looked at the back of the Declaration, we found an inscription: ‘Heere at the wall,’ with two ‘e’s.” He points the case up at the street signs. “Wall Street follows the path of a wooden palisade that the Dutch settlers built to protect themselves from encroaching British settlers, but also the Lenape and other Native American tribes whom they had attacked and killed for the land. The main gate was at de Heere Straat, the ‘Gentleman’s Street’. When the city came under British control, however, the wall was dismantled, and the street the gate lay on became Broadway.”

Mason looks unimpressed. “That’s _it_?” he asks incredulously. “Four teeny words on the back of one very large Declaration?”

“Every word,” Hannibal says.

Mason chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, Dr. Lecter. That face will only get you so far in Texas Hold ‘Em.” He gestures towards the limousine. “And if there’s anything Papa taught me, it’s that the key to running a convincing bluff is holding all the cards.”

The passenger door of the limousine opens, revealing two people still inside. One is Abigail, hands bound with duct tape and a gag shoved in her mouth. The other is Cordell, one hand gripping her shoulder and the other pointing a pistol at her stomach.

Aghast, Will looks back and forth from the limousine to his companions. Margot’s eyes are averted, her mouth tight with pain. Chiyoh’s jaw is set, but her gaze is cold as she glares at Mason. And Hannibal’s calmly neutral façade has been all but shattered as he stares at Abigail.

“Now, think a little harder, Dr. Lecter,” Mason continues, just as brightly as before, “and tell me if you see something else.”

When Hannibal speaks again, his voice is strangled. “Trinity Church,” he says, his eyes never leaving Abigail’s. “The treasure is within Trinity Church.”

Will looks up. Even dwarfed by modern skyscrapers, the craggy Gothic revival spires still loom over everything in their shadow: the sidewalk, the pedestrians, the wrought-iron fence surrounding it. But the banners on the lampposts out front still catch the afternoon light and make the design on them shimmer: a black and gold triquetra on a red field.

It’s the same design on the cross on the back of the Declaration.

 

The candles in the standing candelabras at the back have already been lit in anticipation of the evening mass, but Trinity Church is otherwise deserted, all dimly-lit wooden pews and stone arches. Their footsteps echoing through the nave, the ten of them file down the aisle, two by two. Glancing behind him, away from Mason’s and Cordell’s backs, Hannibal sees Will and Chiyoh, then Alana and Margot, and finally, Chilton and Dolarhyde bringing up the rear.

Hannibal looks to his side, at Abigail. Her restraints have been removed, and she doesn’t appear injured, but her face still looks deeply sullen.

He lowers his voice and leans in. “Are you all right?”

Abigail scowls at him. “Of _course_ I’m not all right; I’m a hostage!” she hisses.

Hannibal shuts his mouth and keeps walking. _She’s doing just fine._

Halfway to the altar, Mason slides into a pew and puts up his feet on the back of the pew in front of them. “Hope you brought those X-ray specs, Dr. Lecter. I want to see what else you’re hiding from me.”

Handing the pipe box to Abigail, Hannibal removes the lid of the document case and pulls out the Declaration, still wrapped in its plastic sheath. He reluctantly places the Declaration in Mason’s outstretched hands, and then puts the document case back together and slides the strap over his shoulder.

“Move over,” Hannibal says flatly.

Much to his surprise, Mason does so without hesitation. Swinging his feet off the back of the pew, he then unwraps and unrolls the Declaration, turning it over with more care than Hannibal would have expected.

Sitting down next to him, Hannibal takes out the bifocals from his jacket pocket and puts them on. Once again, the cross with the triquetra and the unfinished pyramid with the Eye of Providence and the banner around the arms emerges.

Then Hannibal carefully lowers the levers on the side of the bifocals and lifts up the green and blue lenses.

Through the red lenses, the image changes. The cross is still there, but a compass, circled by a sunburst and crowned with a skull, is now at its center. The banner now winds around the length of the cross, and the words on it read: _Beneath Parkington Lane._

“Well?” Mason demands impatiently. “What does it say?”

Hannibal takes off the bifocals. He glances behind him; everyone else has taken a seat in the pews, and is looking at him, waiting for an answer. Most look expectant; Dolarhyde looks uninterested, Margot looks wary, and Abigail is still fuming.

“‘Beneath Parkington Lane.’” He holds out the bifocals to Mason. “You can look for yourself, if you like.”

Mason waves them away, but his face is screwed up in confusion. “A street name?” he asks. “Why would the map lead me here and then take me somewhere else?”

(“Another fucking clue,” Abigail mutters, just loud enough for Hannibal to hear her. He resists the urge to sigh.)

“Parkington Lane must be here,” Hannibal muses. “A street that once ran through the church — or underneath it.” He pauses, conjuring the image in his mind, focusing on the skull. “Some kind of a crypt, perhaps.”

Mason’s eyes light up. “ _Now_ , we’re getting somewhere!” He rolls up the Declaration and jams it back in the plastic. “You see, Dr. Lecter? I’m not so hard to work with — provided you do what I say, of course.”

 

The door marked _UTILITIES_ is up the side aisle and on the other side of the wall that shields the altar; Hannibal holds it open while the others file through. Again, Mason goes first with a spring in his step, while his cohorts follow through the door and down the steps with less excitement.

Chiyoh is one of the last ones in line, but she pauses before she continues on. She can barely meet his eyes. “I am sorry.”

Hannibal knows what she’s talking about, and he knows there’s nothing she needs to be sorry for. “You did what you had to do to get Will and me here,” he says quietly.“I haven’t forgotten whose fault it truly is.”

Chiyoh appears reassured, but her eyes remain downcast as she descends.

Dolarhyde, with Abigail in tow, is last, and he takes control of the door, prodding Hannibal and Abigail down the stairs with the butt of his pistol. The air grows warmer and warmer the lower they go, and as they turn the corner, a large, antiquated metal boiler comes into view, rattling pipes and puffing out steam. As Hannibal looks around, he realizes that the boiler had been installed in the middle of what must have been an old chapel — _possibly dating back to the first Trinity Church_ , he thinks, eyeing the dates on the grave plaques on the walls.

Feeling a tug on his jacket sleeve, Hannibal looks to his left.

Surprisingly, it’s Abigail. “We need to get out of here,” she whispers.

Hannibal glances back towards the stairwell, where Dolarhyde still leans against the wall. “I agree, but I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” he says.

Abigail snorts. “No shit.” She lowers her voice even further. “Look, you want to cooperate with Verger, fine. But cooperation? Only lasts as long as the status quo remains unchanged. As soon as he finds what he’s looking for, he won’t need any of us anymore.” She eyes him. “And I’m not getting the feeling that he’ll just duct-tape us to a pew and leave.”

As he speaks, Hannibal keeps an eye on those around them; no one is paying attention to their conversation. “Then when the status quo changes, we make sure it’s in our favor.” He shrugs the strap of the document carrying case over his shoulder, feeling the Declaration rustle inside.

“ _How_?” Abigail wants to know.

Truth be told, Hannibal has no answer for her. “I’m open to ideas.”

Abigail chews on her lower lip. It is then that Hannibal realizes that, for the first time in his ten years as her guardian, she looks nervous — even frightened.

After a moment, Hannibal reaches out, fully prepared for her to brush him off. But his hands rest on her shoulders, and she doesn’t so much as flinch.

Hannibal looks her in the eye, and he knows what he wants to say: _I’m only cooperating with Mason for securing your safety and Mischa’s legacy. I promise — I truly promise that this search will be worth it, and so will everything that went into it._

But he also knows what he needs to say.

“Don’t be blind, Abigail,” he says. “Look for a window of opportunity. And when it comes, be brave.”

Abigail swallows and rubs at her eyes with the back of her hand, and then nods.

“Over here!” It’s Will. “I found it! Or… him.”

At Will’s shout, everyone flocks to the wall covered in stone grave plaques, where Will is dusting the cobwebs off a particularly old plaque. As Will wipes his dusty hands on his jeans, Hannibal sees a square and compass, with a five-pointed star at its center, and below it, a name.

“Parkington Lane.” Will pats the stone, grinning with pride. “Third-degree Master Mason of the Blue Lodge — _hey!_ ”

A crowbar smashes into the plaque, mere moments after Will ducks away. Dolarhyde is joined by Cordell in breaking open the plaque, and then reaching inside for the wooden coffin within. Chilton reluctantly steps forward to help them draw out the coffin, and Hannibal takes the remaining handle. Together, the four of them carefully lower the coffin down onto the stone floor; while Mr. Lane’s flesh decayed centuries ago, his decaying, musty coffin still puts forth a noticeable odor.

What is left of Parkington Lane’s final resting place is a small, dark cranny.

Alana pulls out a flashlight, clicks it on, and shines it into the tomb. “It’s much deeper than the coffin,” she says, surprised.

Heads crane to get a better look. The light reveals a tunnel of discolored stone, barely high or wide enough for a person to crawl through.

Mason whistles. “Looks like we took a right turn down ol’ Parkington Lane!” He straightens up and claps his hands together. “Who wants to go first?”

No response.

Mason snorts. “No sense of adventure.” He points at Will, then Hannibal. “You two! Go down a ways, then come back and tell us if the coast is clear. If you’re not back in, say, five minutes —” He stops, frowning with concentration, then laughs. “Well, I’ll still come after you anyway, but I’ll assume you’re dead.”

Hannibal glances over at Will. Will rolls his eyes and shrugs, then grabs Alana’s flashlight out of her hand and hoists himself up into the tunnel.

After waiting for Will to get far enough along, Hannibal climbs up and crawls after him on hands and knees, ducking his head to avoid hitting it on the ceiling. Even with the flashlight, the tunnel is much darker than it had initially appeared, and Hannibal has a difficult time seeing where he’s going. In fact, all of his senses, save for touch, seemed to be useless; the only thing he can feel is his palms scraping over the stones.

Suddenly, his hands are clawing through the air.

“Careful there.” Will’s hand grasps one of his own, carefully guiding him forward. “Can you get into a sitting position?”

Curling his shoulders and head downwards, Hannibal manages to bring his legs forward, hanging them over the edge of the tunnel. Surprisingly, his feet land on solid ground, and he stands, blinking in the newfound light of the flashlight.

Will shines the flashlight around them. This section is stone, with brackets on the walls holding unlit metal torches. Ahead of them, shrouded in cobwebs and dust, are a set of stairs spiraling downwards.

Hannibal takes up one of the torches and lights it with the lighter in his pocket. “Shall we?”

Will sighs, but there’s a wry smile on his face. “How’d I know if I hung out with you long enough, I’d be robbing graves?”

Hannibal is amused. “It’s been only three days.”

“Well, three days of prolonged exposure.” Will starts down the stairs, keeping the flashlight trained on his path. “If you’re counting back to when we first met, it’ll be a week tomorrow.”

Hannibal follows Will, keeping the torch aloft. “Has it really?”

“Yeah. Feels like it’s been a lot longer than that, though.” Will stumbles on an uneven step, but catches himself. “Not in a bad way,” he corrects, planting one hand on the wall. “It’s just that… I feel like I’ve learned things about you and about the treasure that it would have taken me a lifetime to learn otherwise.”

Hannibal chuckles. “Several lifetimes, if you’re speaking of the hunt for that treasure.” He inches around the uneven step that tripped up Will.

 _Three days_ , he marvels. _Three days, and we’ve gone farther than three generations of my family._ His eyes linger on Will. _All thanks to him._

“Will.”

Will stops and turns his head. Hannibal is suddenly struck by the light of the torch casting shadows over the plains of his face; he looks like a Dutch Master painting sprung to life from canvas and chiaroscuro.

“What?” Will asks.

Hannibal snaps out of it. “I never would have come this far without you,” he finally says. “I know I dragged you into my world, but… I am glad you’ve decided to stay.”

After a moment, Will cracks a smile. “Well, like I’ve said: it’s important to you and to the historical record.” He turns around and continues down. “Besides,” he calls back, “I appreciate the company.”

Hannibal keeps following him. His heartbeat has increased, though he chalks this up to being so close to the treasure.

Will waits for him to reach the bottom of the stairs, and then the two of them continue on. Stone gives way to a creaking wooden walkway, fraught with missing or broken timbers. Hannibal inches around them carefully, not trusting the structural integrity of the path.

“Look at this.” Will raises the flashlight to illuminate a strange metal structure, hanging just beyond the walkway. “Any idea what it is?”

Hannibal joins him at the railing and lifts up his torch. The structure is massive and two-tiered, suspended by chains from the tops of upright beams. The rings between the beams are octagonal, with a deep groove running along the tops.

On a hunch, Hannibal reaches out and tilts the torch towards the higher ring and catches the flame in the groove. The fire spreads around the ring, and then on the lower ring, confirming Hannibal’s suspicions about what it is: a chandelier.

Hannibal looks down and what he sees is astonishing. Below them is a pit, supported with crossing ropes and wooden beams and encircled with stairs descending into the dark depths. Hanging alongside the chandelier, dangling farther down, are platforms rigged with ropes and pulleys.

“Son of a bitch,” Will breaths, pointing the flashlight downwards. “It’s an elevator system.” He glances at Hannibal, eyes lit up with excitement. “Might as well be a giant neon sign screaming ‘the Freemasons were here.’”

“I don’t need a sign when I have you two to be my personal tour guides.”

Will and Hannibal both stiffen and turn around at the nasally drawl. Mason hops off the bottom step and strolls towards them, followed by Cordell and Chilton. Chiyoh and Abigail come behind, pushed along by Dolarhyde.

Hannibal notices two distinct absences. “Where’s Alana?”

“And where’s Margot?” Will asks, glowering at Mason.

Mason chuckles and holds up his hands. “Down, boys. The ladies are upstairs keeping an eye out for intruders. And I’ve told them explicitly that if _anyone_ in this party returns _without_ me —” He shrugs. “Well, I told them to draw their own conclusions!”

For the first time today, Hannibal feels a small surge of triumph. _If they have already drawn their own conclusions, they won’t guard the boiler room for long._

Mason peers down the wooden stairs. “Since none of you are in the volunteering spirit…” He considers, then points at Abigail. “Why don’t you go down there first?”

Abigail recoils. “No fucking _way_ ,” she says. “Walk down two hundred years of wood rot and termite damage? No thanks.”

Cordell and Dolarhyde reach inside their jackets.

“Abigail,” Hannibal warns. “Do as he says.”

Abigail shoots a disbelieving glance at him, but she tucks the pipe box in her hands inside her jacket before inching around the others and starting down the stairs, leaning against the wall and grabbing onto the exposed timbers as she goes. Hannibal slips out in front of Mason to follow her, and Will gets in behind Mason. Chilton pushes in front of Cordell and Dolarhyde, who take their hands out of their jackets before following. Chiyoh cautiously brings up the rear.

Abigail, still descending hesitantly, stomps down on a plank experimentally, and it breaks and falls. The pieces of the plank clatter on the stairs below.

Hannibal nimbly avoids the hole in the walkway. “I believe we’re directly beneath the graveyard of Trinity Church,” he says. “Even grave robbers wouldn’t dig this deep.”

Suddenly, there is a rushing, rumbling sound far overhead, and the whole stairway rattles alarmingly as dust and dirt are shaken down onto their heads. They all flatten themselves against the wall and look up, trying to figure out what the noise was.

“I suppose engineers building subway tunnels are another story,” Cordell remarks snidely.

And then the wood beneath their feet no longer creaks, but sharply _cracks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And some more information on the origins of the names of [Wall Street](http://www.loc.gov/wiseguide/mar09/wallets.html) and [Broadway](http://www.thirteen.org/metrofocus/2015/10/the-unknown-story-of-broadway-street/)!


	14. In which an unpleasant discovery is made.

Cordell plunges through the gap of broken, rotting planks, screaming all the way down. He hits the stairs directly below them, but the wood gives way with a splintering _crash_. His back slams into what’s left of the railing, and, completely limp and suddenly silent, he keeps tumbling into the darkness below, pursued by falling wood.

Abigail claps her hands over her mouth, suppressing a gasp of horror. Will shrinks back even further against the wall. Chilton has gone completely pale, and even Chiyoh and Dolarhyde look disturbed. Mason just looks put out.

Then there’s another _crack_ , and the whole stairway splits apart, the halves tilting dangerously. All of them stagger, falling over each other as the wood beneath their feet starts to give way. The torch falls from Hannibal’s hand and into the pit.

No longer shaken, Chiyoh jumps clear of the stairs. She hits the stairs a level down, near where Cordell had fallen through. Hannibal isn’t sure what she’s doing until she vaults onto the suspended elevator.

Dolarhyde catches on. He grabs Mason and heaves him over the edge; Mason hits the platform with an indignant squawk. Dolarhyde jumps down after him, dragging along a terrified Chilton.

Abigail totters on the edge of the landing, then leaps across the gap to an undamaged section of the stairs, nearer to where the elevator is starting to sink. Hannibal is about to jump after her when the planks beneath him completely give way.

Will falls forward, his stomach hitting the floor, and he grabs Hannibal’s hands. Hannibal dangles off the edge, and, with Will holding on, manages to kick his way back up on what’s left of the stairs. The document carrying case bounces against his back, but the strap holds.

Then the rope supports above them snap, and the stair landing plummets downwards. Hannibal seizes Will’s legs, and both of them collapse onto the landing as it falls, rushing past the elevator and into the pit’s depths.

Then, again, Hannibal is jerked to a halt, his joints cracking against the wood. The landing cants sharply, and now it’s Will’s turn to fly off the edge.

Reflexively, Hannibal slides down and manages to grab one hand before Will falls. Peering behind him, Hannibal sees the last of the rope supports hanging taut, but only on one side — and, judging by the fraying strands, it won’t last long.

The landing continues to rock back and forth, swinging them close to the wall and then out into the pit. Something is rolling around beside him, and Hannibal turns his head to see what it is.

The document carrying case is on the far side of the platform. One more swing of the landing, and the Declaration of Independence will fall.

Hannibal looks down at Will; he’s staring at the Declaration as well. “Will!”

Will looks up, and his eyes are wide with panic.

“Do you trust me?” Hannibal asks.

Will blinks, confused. “Sure?”

Hannibal lets go of Will’s hand.

Will is thrown clear of the swaying platform, falling on the stairs directly below. Hannibal lunges for the document carrying case and seizes the strap right before it falls. Breathing a sigh of relief, he slides the strap over his head and across his chest.

Then the landing swings out again. Hannibal falls, but just barely manages to grab onto the planks at the edge. He tries to climb back up, but one of the planks rips right off the nails. Hannibal throws it away, dangling by one arm.

“Hannibal!” Will calls from below. “Hang on!”

Hannibal tightens his grip, hearing the creaking of the plank he’s holding onto as it slowly buckles under his weight. _This can’t be the end,_ he thinks. _I’m so close, Mischa — this can’t be how your dream ends —_

And then a rope hits the landing.

“Hannibal!” Above him, on the slowly descending elevator, Chiyoh holds the other end of the rope. “Take it!”

Relieved, Hannibal grabs on with one hand, then pushes away from the platform with his other hand. He flies far to one side, nearly hitting the wall of the pit before he lets go and drops onto what’s left of the steps. The planks shake and creak beneath his feet, but they stay in place.

A few flights of stairs above him, Will springs to his feet and rushes towards him.

“I’m sorry, Will,” Hannibal says before he even knows what he’s saying. “I’m sorry for dropping you, but the Declaration —”

His words are cut off as Will throws his arms around him and pulls him into a tight hug. Stunned, Hannibal stands there for a moment, unmoving, before he raises his arms and loosely settles them around Will.

Will’s wry chuckle caresses his ear. “Don’t be.” He pulls back, but his hands are still on Hannibal’s sides. “I probably would have done the same to you.”

“Really?” Hannibal asks, finding himself unusually delighted by the thought.

Will shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “I mean, I’ve probably already lost my job by now, but if I return the Declaration, _maybe_ Krendler would write me a charitable recommendation before he kicks me out on my ass.”

Behind them, Abigail snorts as she comes down the stairs. “I would have dropped you both,” she says. “Weirdos.”

The elevator stops just beyond the stair landing, the gears cranking as Dolarhyde pulls the lever and grinds it to a halt. Chiyoh winds the rope back up into a neat loop while Chilton stands stock-still in the center of the platform.

Mason leans casually against one of the wooden beams supporting the side. “You’re welcome for the timely rescue, by the by,” he says. “Now, hop on!”

Will crosses his arms and frowns. Hannibal hesitates, eyeing the lack of railings around the elevator.

“Goodness gracious, great balls of fire, Dr. Lecter; I’m not trying to kill you!” Mason exclaims impatiently. “Losing Cordell was bad enough; I don’t need to lose the only other person here who actually knows what we’re doing.”

Abigail elbows Hannibal. “Status quo,” she mutters. “Stick to it.”

For the first time this weekend, Hannibal has to agree with her.

 

After descending slowly and stutteringly for what seems like ages, the elevator comes to a stop at a wooden dock jutting out of the wall. Just beyond the dock is an arched doorway of stone, curtained in cobwebs.

Mason squints at the doorway, then looks at Hannibal. “Is that it?” he asks eagerly. “Is that where the treasure is?”

“No more rope.” Dolarhyde points up at the elevator’s pulley system. “Lowest this can go.”

“I didn’t ask _you_ ,” Mason says, irritated. “I asked Dr. Lecter: _is that it_?”

Hannibal considers his options and finds that he has none. “I suppose it is.”

Unwinding the rope in her hands, Chiyoh throws a loop around one of the poles on the dock and reels the elevator in. She jumps off to tie the rope up, and then stands aside as the remaining members file off.

Mason, naturally, is the first to hit the ground. “I can hardly believe it!” he exclaims. “Years and years of hearing about that fabulous, fabled Knights Templar treasure — and here we are!”

Hannibal frowns. “You knew of it before I approached you about it?”

Mason whirls around, his eyes popped in confusion. Then he laughs when he sees his expression mirrored in Hannibal’s face. “Oh, I never told you? Well, you’re not the only one with the family connections, Dr. Lecter!” he says. “You see, Papa was descended from Charles Carroll III of Carrollton, who was, as you know —”

“— a wealthy Roman Catholic planter from Maryland, and the last surviving signatory of the Declaration of Independence,” Will finishes boredly from behind Hannibal. “What’s your point?”

Mason sniffs, but continues regardless of the interruption. “As the family story goes, Charles Carroll knew of the Templar Treasure, and tried in vain to get the word to President Jackson. But, with his dying breath, he confided in his son instead — who was, as chance would have it, a Freemason — and ever since then, the legend of the treasure has been passed from father to son.”

Hannibal and Chiyoh exchange glances, but say nothing.

“Papa told me the story very often when I was a boy,” Mason continues. “He always had faith that I would be the heir to finally find the treasure, and make the family richer than Croesus — no, richer than Solomon himself!” His face is glowing with the recollection. “‘So King Solomon exceeded all the kings of the earth for riches and for wisdom. And all the earth sought to Solomon, to hear his wisdom, which God had put in his heart. And they brought every man his present, vessels of silver, and vessels of gold, and garments, and armour, and spices, horses, and mules, a rate year by year.’”

A vague memory taps at the door of his mind. Hannibal doesn’t answer quite yet.

Mason pauses. “First Kings, chapter ten, verses twenty-three to twenty-five,” he clarifies smugly. “I may not be as _eminent_ a scholar of history as some of those present, but Papa made sure I knew my scripture.”

“And it is a wonderfully long-winded scripture,” Chilton puts in. Hannibal never thought he’d be glad to hear Chilton’s voice, but today has been full of surprises. “But let’s not forget that we’re _really_ here so we can _all_ be rich and famous for being rich.”

“Yes, of course, Dr. Chilton,” Mason says boredly, turning around. “A little less talk, a lot more action.”

Hannibal follows on Mason’s heels as they approach the doorway. More unlit torches in brackets flank the archway; Hannibal takes one and lights it. Brushing aside the cobwebs, he steps through, ahead of Mason.

His torch alone can’t illuminate whatever passage or room they’ve stepped into. Casting the fire around, Hannibal sees two more torches on the other side of the archway and lights them both.

The flame from the torches illuminates a small, circular room, ringed with alcoves mirroring the shape of the door. Save for a single lantern hanging in the center, the room is utterly empty.

The others enter: moving around Hannibal and spreading out about the room, examining the walls, looking for anything that might remotely resemble treasure. Taking one of the torches from the interior wall, Abigail lights the lantern, staring at it with a furrowed brow.

For all his haste to get here, Chilton looks utterly disappointed. “What’s _this_?”

“Exactly, Dr. Chilton; what _is_ this, Dr. Lecter?” Mason asks, crossing his arms.

Hannibal is silent and still.

“A dead end,” Chiyoh says softly. “There is nothing here.”

Will tears his eyes away from a dusty alcove and gapes at her. “No, there’s _got_ to be something more!” he exclaims. “Another clue, another — _something_ , anything else.” He looks over at Hannibal expectantly, hopefully. “Hannibal, you — you can figure this out, right? You always can.”

Hannibal can’t bear to look at Will, at all the _trust_ he places in him. “No,” he says, looking at Mason. “There’s nothing left.”

Mason narrows his eyes. “You better not be playing chicken with me, Dr. Lecter,” he warns. “I know you know where the treasure is.”

Hannibal stares back. “No,” he says. “I don’t.”

Mason wrinkles his nose. With a huff, he turns on his heel and walks out, Chilton scurrying after him and Dolarhyde bringing up the rear.

“Hey!” Will runs after them. “Wait, wait a second!”

Hannibal follows him. He emerges from the room in time to see all three men on the elevator. Chiyoh makes a dash for the dock, but Dolarhyde casts off the rope tether before she can reach it.

“Mason, don’t do this,” Will says. “Don’t just — _leave_ us down here!”

“I’m afraid that’s what I’ll be doing, Dr. Graham.” Mason pulls the lever, and the elevator cranks upwards, just high enough to be out of reach. “Unless Dr. Lecter tells me the next clue, that is.”

“There is no other clue,” Hannibal repeats, frustrated with Mason, but more with himself.

Mason sighs dramatically. “You know, I’m getting really tired of that poker face, Doctor. If only Cordell was still with us so he could rip it off for me.” He grabs Dolarhyde’s pistol out of its holster and points it at Hannibal. “Clue. Now.”

“The lantern.”

Surprised, everyone looks at Abigail. Her face is drawn and her lips are quivering, but she stands resolutely on the edge of the dock.

“Abigail,” Chiyoh says quietly. “Don’t.”

Will brings up his hand and Chiyoh falls silent. Abigail glances guiltily at Hannibal. Hannibal knows what she has said without her saying a word: _the status quo has changed._

“The lantern?” Mason repeats incredulously.

“The lantern,” Abigail confirms, her voice a little surer. “It’s part of Freemason teachings. In King Solomon’s temple, there was a winding staircase. It signified the journey that had to be made to enlightenment, to the light of God’s truth.”

“Well, that’s fascinating,” Mason says, not sounding very fascinated. “But why is the lantern the clue?”

“Because it shows us where we have to go next,” Abigail says triumphantly. “Christ Church in Boston — now the Old North Church — where Paul Revere had Robert Newman, the church’s sexton, set up a lantern signal in case Revere or other riders were unable to leave town to bring word of British troop movements. ‘One, if by land, and two, if by sea,” as Longfellow puts it.” She points back into the chamber, to the glowing lantern. “One lantern. Under the winding staircase of the steeple. _That’s_ where we have to look.”

Mason laughs his braying, snorting laugh. “‘ _We_ ’? What’s this ‘we’?” He hands Dolarhyde’s pistol back to him. “ _I’m_ going to finally find the treasure.”

“But — but what if there’s another clue?” Abigail asks desperately. “You need us now; you’ll need us then.”

Mason waves her off. “You value your knowledge at an unreasonably high rate,” he says snidely. “Terribly unbecoming trait for a young lady. Must run in your family, Dr. Lecter!”

Hannibal stiffens, suddenly suspicious. “What did you say?”

“Oh, just making an observation,” Mason says lightly. “But really, Dr. Lecter: don’t you think it’s a _little_ funny? All that time your sister spent in Boston, looking for signs of the _Charlotte_ , and the endgame was right under her feet!”

( _They said they could make me richer than — than some old-ass king_ , Grutas gasps, and Mason echoes him tauntingly from another edge: _I could make the family richer than Croesus — no, richer than Solomon himself!_ )

“I never told you about Mischa,” Hannibal says slowly, coldly. “How do you know she was looking for the treasure before I was? And how do you know that she was in Boston to find the _Charlotte_?”

Will’s mouth drops open. Abigail’s face blanches even further. Chiyoh glares.

For once, Mason is at a loss for words. Then he laughs nervously. “Well, as I told you: the story of the treasure’s been passed down through my family since the American Revolution,” he says. “The Carrolls and the Vergers are great, singular families, to be sure, but I’m sure... _other_ families kept the story alive in the same way.”

“I never told you about how _I_ learned of it, either,” Hannibal counters, his jaw tightening. “The only way you could have learned about Tadeusz Kościuszko and Tomas Lecter and their connection was through Mischa.”

“Who? And — and who?” Mason’s face is screwed up in confusion. “I’ve never —”

“ _You_ ,” Hannibal snarls. “All this time, it was you! _You_ were hunting for the Templar treasure long before I was. _You_ heard that Mischa had information about it, but she destroyed it rather than give it to you.

“And then, you… _you_ had her killed.”

Mason stares down at him for a long time, a faint look of disdain on his face. Then: “Congratulations, Dr. Lecter. You just lost the opportunity to come to Boston.”

With that, he pulls back the lever. As Hannibal watches, angry and helpless in his anger, the elevator cranks further and further upward, until there’s nothing left to see but the darkness of the pit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... You didn't think I forgot about [Charles Carroll](https://www.nps.gov/parkhistory/online_books/declaration/bio5.htm), did you?
> 
> Since I'm not taking any Biblical Studies classes this semester (and therefore don't have my RSV Bible with me at school), I had to look up the exact wording of Mason's I Kings quotation on [Bible Gateway](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1%20Kings+10&version=KJV). (I used the King James translation, though; Mason just seems more like a King James Bible kind of guy.)
> 
> It's difficult to find reliable, not-steeped-in-conspiracy-theories sources on Freemasonry, but I figured that this research article about the [symbolism of the winding staircase](https://www.kamloopsfreemasons.com/wp-content/uploads/Symbolism-Of-The-Winding-Staircase.pdf) (written by a Freemason, to boot!) was about as accurate as I could get.
> 
> I have a low-key grudge against Henry Wadsworth Longfellow for [misrepresenting the story of Paul Revere's ride](https://www.paulreverehouse.org/the-real-story/). (That being said, if you forgive the historical truth thrown out in the name of poetic license, ["The Landlord's Tale"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44637/the-landlords-tale-paul-reveres-ride) isn't a terrible poem, especially for a dramatic reading.)


	15. In which the fate of the treasure is revealed.

All Will can hear in the cavernous, yawning stillness of the pit are Abigail’s muffled, hitched sobs. Chiyoh has one arm wrapped around her, the other hand holding the torch, and her face is like stone as Abigail cries into her shoulder.

Hannibal doesn’t seem to have noticed. He hasn’t moved from the dock since the elevator vanished from view, his head still tilted upwards as if he can somehow see it. The rage has been routed from his face, a deep grief supplanting it.

Will, unable to fully comprehend their shared sorrow, stands apart and waits.

Finally, Hannibal speaks, his voice hoarse and raw. “Abigail, if only I had listened to you —”

“About _what_?” Abigail lifts her head, her face streaked with tears. “It’s not like — like any of us knew what _really_ happened the night Mom —” Her voice cracks and she starts again. “I didn’t want you to work with Verger in the first place because he was arrogant, his business was shady, and the last time you took his money, he had his sister put in therapy with you against her will — _not_ because of anything to do with Mom.”

Will frowns. _Hannibal was Margot’s therapist? At least_ that _explains how she knew who he was…_

“I know.” Hannibal sighs. “I knew it then. But now that I’ve acknowledged it…” His head drops in defeat. “It’s just as you said. I’ve been wasting my life for ten years, and now, I’ll lose it. The Templar treasure will claim two more Lecters.”

Will speaks up then. “No, it won’t.”

Hannibal looks over at him, more bewildered than surprised.

“It won’t,” Will repeats firmly. He approaches Hannibal and grasps his shoulder, looking him in the eye. “We’re not done with the treasure, and the treasure isn’t done with us. Not yet, anyway.”

Hannibal stares at him blankly. Then realization sparks in his bloodshot eyes. “The treasure… _is_ here?” he asks.

Will shrugs awkwardly. “I’m... pretty sure it is.”

“But — the _clue_ —” Chiyoh looks down at Abigail, more baffled than Will has ever seen her. “The clue you gave Mason —”

“I know, I know: the lantern, the winding staircase of truth, Paul Revere, yada yada yada.” Abigail grabs Chiyoh’s hand and pulls her over the threshold of the chamber. “But even Henry Wadsworth ‘Historically Inaccurate’ Longfellow can tell you the British came over _water_ , if not technically ‘by sea.’” She pauses. “There were _two_ lanterns, not one!”

“You gave Mason a fake clue.” Hannibal says. He sounds highly impressed, and to be honest, Will still is. “How did you come up with that so quickly?”

Abigail wipes her eyes on her sleeve, leaving her face red in the firelight. “Well, what can I say?” she says, smiling weakly. “I know a good history teacher and an even better bullshit artist.”

Hannibal almost returns her smile, but it turns into a frown as he looks back around the chamber, and then at Will. “So where’s the real clue?”

Grinning, Will retraces his steps. “I didn’t see it until Abigail lit the lantern.” Reaching the only alcove fully illuminated by the lantern’s glow, he brushes aside the cobwebs with his hand. “Fortunately, Mason didn’t either, so… I had play dumb to keep him from noticing.”

Hannibal stares in disbelief at what has been revealed: a small painting on the stone, of an eye wreathed in the rays of the sun. “The Eye of Providence,” he murmurs. “Everywhere we look, it looks back.”

Chiyoh raps her knuckles on the wall near the painting, and then outside of the alcove. “The sound is different,” she reports. “Here, it feels —” She knocks again, right underneath the eye. “Hollow.”

The words are barely out of her mouth when the wall sinks back into the alcove even further with a scraping and grinding of stone on stone.

The four of them look at each other, astonished. All of a sudden, with a single shift of a wall, the treasure seems already within their grasp.

Will instantly hands over his torch to Abigail and grips the edge of the wall, trying to push it aside. Hannibal joins him, digging his fingers into dents in the middle and pulling. Out of the corner of his eye, Will sees Abigail and Chiyoh double back to the doorway and grab the other two torches, bringing them over for more light.

And slowly, but surely, the door moves away.

Hannibal takes a torch from Abigail, sweeping it towards the doorway. “After you,” he says to Will.

Will shakes his head. “No,” he says, taking Chiyoh’s other torch. “You’ve been working towards this for ten years; you first.”

Hannibal nods, a faint smile on his face. Then he holds up his torch and passes Will to cross the threshold of the hidden doorway.

Suddenly, Hannibal stops, and the torch lowers to his side as his shoulders slump. Frowning in confusion, Will walks in after him.

Then he sees it.

The hidden room is much larger and longer than the one before it, and even more neglected and dusty, but its emptiness is far more jarring. Broken and overturned tables litter the edges and shattered stoneware covers the floor. There is no gold and no silver; the only remotely shiny objects are some tarnished candlesticks lying on one of the few intact tables and a few rusted pieces of armor piled in a corner. The grandest point in the room is a low alcove with a grave statue of a knight, his hands clasped in prayer, and even that has been worn down with time.

If the treasure was ever here, it certainly wasn’t here now.

Chiyoh and Abigail enter behind Will, casting their torches around to clear the air of low-hanging cobwebs. Their faces grow somber when they realize that there is nothing inside. Hannibal doesn’t react to their presence.

Will approaches him. “Hannibal —”

“It’s gone.” Hannibal sounds more defeated and dejected than ever. “All of it, _gone_.”

Will nods, his throat tightening. “Yeah.” He looks around again: nothing but broken wood and crumbling stone. “I’m — I know I got your hopes up, but I really thought it would be —”

“No. I did, too.” Hannibal pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Will sees tears glimmering at the corners of his eyes. “All this time searching… and all along, it was gone for — for who _knows_ how long. Perhaps even before Kościuszko’s death.”

Abigail comes up to Hannibal’s side. “That doesn’t matter now.”

Hannibal turns on her. “Of course it doesn’t,” he says, a hard edge to his voice. “It doesn’t matter because you were right.”

“No, I _wasn’t_ ,” Abigail says, full of conviction and desperation. “Just look around, Uncle. The fact that we’re standing in this room right now means that the treasure was real and not — not just a story cooked up to keep the British distracted.” She tries to laugh, but fails. “The fact that you or any of us figured out all those clues and made it _here_ is — is —”

“Mischa would be proud that you have come this far,” Chiyoh finishes softly.

Hannibal looks over at her, his expression still desolate. “I know,” he says quietly. “But… I believed I would find it, for _her._ ” He shakes his head and goes to sit down in the alcove, next to the knight’s statue. “She cannot rest easy now.”

“Justice _will_ be served,” Chiyoh says firmly. “We know where to find Mason, and we will ensure that he does not get away with _any_ of what he has done.”

Hannibal’s eyes darken at the mention of Mason, but he nods.

“And who knows: the treasure could still be out there,” Will says, walking over to him. “And if it is… I’ll help you find it.”

Hannibal looks up. “You would do that?” he asks, awed. “For me?”

Will scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I _did_ indirectly help you steal the Declaration of Independence, and we _did_ escape federal custody together,” he says. He’s a little embarrassed at how… emotionally _open_ he’s being, but he doesn’t particularly care right now. “At this point, the better question is: what _wouldn’t_ I do for you?”

Hannibal beams at him. Will feels his face heating up, but he smiles back.

“Not to interrupt all this sappiness over here,” Abigail says dryly, “but we should keep in mind that we can’t find the treasure and prosecute Verger to within an inch of his life if we’re stuck down here.”

“If we’re in luck, the FBI will already be on their way.” Hannibal leans back into the alcove on one hand and stretches out his legs. “They may not have intercepted Mason and the remnants of his cabal, but Alana and Margot will have been suspicious if they emerged without the four of us.”

Will blinks, surprised. “Wait — is _Margot_ working for the FBI?”

Chiyoh narrows her eyes. “And so is Dr. Bloom?” she asks. “I was under the impression that she was loyal to Mason.”

“So was I, but Agent Crawford said otherwise,” Hannibal says mildly. “Apparently, she — and indirectly, Margot — has been supplying the Art Crime Team with information on Mason’s illegal treasure-hunting expeditions since the Panamanian galleon looting.”

“If Dr. Bloom has been a double agent for that long, I find it hard to believe that Mason has not realized it by now,” Chiyoh points out. “And how do we know that Mason did not kill them and then tell us that they were still alive?”

As much as he wants to believe that his friend is safe, Will has to concede that Chiyoh might be right.

“So, all things considered…” Abigail says slowly. “It _might_ be a good idea to try and find our _own_ way out of here.” She shrugs. “Any ideas?”

Hannibal thinks for a moment. Then: “Well, the first thing the builders would have done after digging down here would be to cut a secondary shaft —” he shifts to the side and gestures upwards with the torch “ — back out for air in case of cave-ins —” He stops abruptly.

“What is it?” Will asks.

Standing up suddenly, Hannibal leans back over the knight’s grave, running his fingers over the carvings within the alcove. By the light of the torch, Will sees four metal medallions set within the wall, each carved with Masonic symbols in low relief. But the medallion in the top right corner is devoid of decoration, with only a centered, strangely shaped indent above a much smaller hole.

“‘The secret lies with Charlotte,’” Hannibal murmurs, almost to himself. “Could it really be that simple?”

Chiyoh peers at the medallion. Then she inhales sharply. “I think it is.”

Abigail is baffled. “What is _what_?”

Hannibal holds out his hand. “Abigail: the box I gave you earlier.”

Abigail still looks completely lost, but she digs inside her jacket and hands over the metal box. Hannibal sets it down on the edge of the statue’s cloak and lifts off the lid to reveal an antique pipe with a white, beautifully carved bowl.

“Wait,” Will says slowly. “Is this… the pipe that Bigfoot stole?”

Abigail stares at him, even more confused than ever. Chiyoh ducks her head, but Will thinks he sees the corners of her mouth tilt up.

Hannibal chuckles briefly. “Indeed it is.” Separating the stem from the bowl, he slides the latter piece into the hole in the medallion. Now that it’s in the light, Will can see what the carvings depict: castle battlements surrounded by soldiers and crowned by a knight on horseback, holding a blank standard.

Inserting the stem into the hole below, Hannibal grasps the end of the stem and slowly turns the medallion around until he can no longer move it. And then he presses it into the wall.

Stone scrapes against stone, and a strong gust of air nearly blows out Will’s torch. Startled, Will looks around for the source of the wind, only to see a third doorway sliding out of the stones in the far wall.

Abigail is the first to the doorway, darting inside; Chiyoh gets to her feet and follows her shortly afterwards. Will takes a few steps after them, but then pauses and looks back.

Hannibal is still kneeling by the knight’s statue, his previous melancholy fading not into excitement, but into uncertainty. “Go,” he says without looking up.

Will frowns. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Hannibal removes the bowl and stem from the medallion, snapping them back together. “I have believed the treasure to be within reach twice today, and each time, I have lost it. To lose it a third time…”

Will understood what he was saying. The single, most awful possibility — that of the Knights Templar treasure being truly gone: with no hope of ever unearthing it, of finishing what his sister had begun — would be too much for Hannibal to endure.

Hannibal sighs. “The hunt for the treasure has taken much from my family — too much, perhaps,” he says, finally raising his head and looking at Will. “But at least it gave me you.”

Will meets his eyes. In the firelight, Hannibal’s eyes burn a more vivid hazel than ever before, and his gaze is even warmer.

Without really knowing, or even questioning what he’s doing, Will strides back over, drops to his knees, and presses his mouth against Hannibal’s.

Much to his surprise, Hannibal kisses him back. The pipe clatters against the stone ledge as his free hand anchors in Will’s hair, drawing him in further.

“It’s there!”

Will breaks off the kiss, startled by Abigail’s shriek of joy. For the first time today, hope flares in Hannibal’s eyes. With another quick kiss, he slides his hand down to Will’s shoulders; they stand, entwined in each other.

Abigail dashes back into the chamber, without her torch and with her cheeks flushed with exhilaration. “It’s _there_ ; it’s actually there!” she exclaims. “The treasure — oh my God, it’s _there_ and there’s so _much_ of it!”

Hannibal looks at Will, his eyes bright, and then back at Abigail. “Truly?”

Abigail nods, breathless. “You won’t _believe_ what’s in there,” she says. “Chests of coins and jewels. Whole armories of weapons. Sarcophagi and grave goods. _So_ much gold. _So_ many statues. And I think that shelf full of scrolls and tablets I saw might be from the Library of Alexandria.”

Will feels dizzy, as though he’s about to faint from sheer excitement.

“But _wait_ ,” Abigail is saying to Hannibal. “So Chiyoh —” she points at Chiyoh as the other woman reenters the chamber “— sees this bowl of oil and she lights it up with my torch and —” She sweeps her torch upwards. “Channels filled with this oil must run throughout that room, because then there were these lines of fire _everywhere_ and — and we saw _so_ much more.” She pauses, still beaming. “There were stairs and platforms and a lower floor that — that probably stretches for a mile and… every single inch of it is _covered_ with treasure.”

Hannibal stares at her in awe. “It’s there,” he repeats. “We… we did it.”

“We did it.” Unexpectedly, Abigail laughs, high and giddy. “And I’ve never been so happy to be wrong in my entire life.” She throws her arms around Hannibal (and partly Will) and hugs them both.

Hannibal holds her tightly. “I’m proud of you, Abigail,” he says, so quietly, Will can barely hear him, “and I know your mother would be, too.”

Abigail blinks back tears, but still looks radiantly happy.

For the first time since Will has met her, Chiyoh is smiling. “Come and see,” she says, holding out her hand. “Both of you.”

Will looks beyond everyone and through the doorway. Gold gleams in the distance, bright enough to be sunlight. And it might be his imagination — but he hopes it’s not — but somewhere beyond the shadows of statues, he sees a spiraling stairway cut into the stone walls.

Taking Abigail’s hand in his left hand and Will’s in his right, Hannibal slowly approaches the doorway. Will walks along with him, and Chiyoh falls into step at Abigail’s side.

Together, the four of them step into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features art by [carrioncrowned](https://carrioncrowned.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, which you can also see [here](https://78.media.tumblr.com/3b8769915ca57ef87dc4eac9879279f8/tumblr_oxwrt0hqoB1vvic2no1_1280.png)!


	16. In which no one undeserving goes to prison.

By the time Hannibal emerges from underneath a flagstone in the floor of the most run-down mausoleum in the Trinity Church graveyard, it’s a quarter after nine and the FBI is swarming over the grounds. With two armored vehicles parked directly in front of the church’s gates, Hannibal is mildly surprised when neither of the agents approaching them (one of whom he recognizes as a member of Agent Crawford’s team) pull out handcuffs. Instead, they redirect Abigail, Chiyoh, and Will to the ambulance around the block, and point Hannibal in the direction of Trinity Church.

(“But come get checked out by the medics afterwards,” orders the other agent, a shorter, squinting man graying around the temples. “Even if you’re not hurt, God only knows what kinds of spores and bacteria are down in that soil.”)

Agent Crawford is sitting on the steps leading to the church doors, but he stands up as Hannibal approaches. Alana and Margot, both looking very much alive and well, are standing nearby.

“I assume you called Agent Crawford?” Hannibal asks Alana.

“ _I_ did, actually,” Margot puts in. “I used Alana’s phone to get through, of course, but after that, it was all me.”

Alana’s gaze is fond, but she sobers when she turns to Hannibal. “We made the call as soon as we were positive Mason wouldn’t be back up for a while, but he and the other three left before the FBI arrived,” she says, apologetic.

“Other _two_ ,” Hannibal corrects. “Cordell fell victim to a rotting staircase.”

Margot snorts. “Good fucking riddance.”

Agent Crawford eyes the document case slung across Hannibal’s back. “Mason Verger doesn’t still have the Declaration, does he?”

In response, Hannibal slides the strap around his arm and over his head and hands the entire case over to Margot. Margot unscrews the cap and checks inside, and then nods at Agent Crawford.

Agent Crawford raises his eyebrows. “Just like that?” he asks incredulously. “No plea bargains, no ransom demands, no nothing?”

“I can offer a bribe, if you like,” Hannibal says. “How does ten billion dollars sound to you?”

Alana and Margot look at each other, realization dawning on their faces.

Agent Crawford almost looks impressed. “I take it you actually found that treasure Dr. Bloom said you all were after.”

Hannibal can’t help but smile, still feeling the triumph burn in his chest. “It’s about five stories beneath your shoes,” he says, “in a chamber easily as large as Trinity Church itself.”

Agent Crawford nods appreciatively and crosses his arms. For the first time, Hannibal notices what’s on the agent’s finger: a gold signet ring, set with a blue stone and gilded with a square and compass.

“You know what the Knights Templar and the Freemasons had in common, Dr. Lecter?” Agent Crawford asks. “They both believed the treasure was too great for any one man to have, even a king — or even their own brotherhoods.” His fingers tap against the sleeve of his camel skin coat. “That’s why they went to such great lengths to keep it hidden.”

“The Founding Fathers thought the same way about government,” Hannibal replies. “I believe their solution will work for the treasure as well.”

“You give it to the people,” Margot says.

Hannibal hums in agreement. “You divide the treasure among the museums of the world — the Smithsonian, the Met, the British Museum, the Louvre, the Museum of Cairo, the National Museum of China — because it belongs to the world.” For a moment, he imagines he hears Will’s voice in his own. “There’s thousands of years of world history down there, and no single private collection can house all of it.”

Agent Crawford stares at him for a moment. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for it,” he says, “but I’m beginning to think you really don’t understand the concept of a bargaining chip, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal chuckles. “I was just coming to my requests, Agent Crawford. You can even think of them as demands, if you like.”

Agent Crawford looks like he doesn’t know whether to be amused or worried. He settles for sitting back down. “Okay, shoot.”

Hannibal sits next to him. “One: Dr. Will Graham gets off completely clean, not a mark on his criminal or employment record,” he says. “If he’s been fired in his absence, he gets his job back without question.”

Agent Crawford nods and motions for him to go on.

“Two,” Hannibal continues, “I want the credit for the find to go to the entire Lecter family, with the assistance of Dr. Will Graham.”

Agent Crawford frowns. “What happened to your other accomplice?” he asks. “When we questioned your niece, she mentioned that her —” he pulls a notepad out from his pocket and checks it “— former _babysitter_ was part of all this? First name Chiyoh, no known surname?”

“Chiyoh was very much part of this,” Hannibal says. “And as far as I’m concerned, she _is_ part of the Lecter family.” _Chiyoh would rather not have attention drawn to herself, anyways._

Agent Crawford shrugs and puts his notepad away. “What about you?”

Hannibal thinks for a moment. Then: “I want all charges against me dropped.”

Agent Crawford leans back. “I think that can be arranged,” he says slowly, “provided you help me arrest Mason Verger.”

Hannibal’s jaw tightens involuntarily at the name. “That I can do,” he finally says, standing. “He, Chilton, and Dolarhyde are heading for the Old North Church in Boston; they are under the impression the treasure is there.”

Agent Crawford doesn’t question it. “Whatever works to get them behind bars,” he says, standing as well. “You made a clusterfuck of this investigation at first, but you might just help me take down Mason Verger after all.”

Alana raises her eyebrows. Margot coughs conspicuously.

“Although Drs. Bloom and Verger deserve most of the credit,” Agent Crawford adds after a moment. He looks over at Hannibal. “Sure you don’t want me to reopen that file on Grutas?” he asks. “I could keep digging, get my old buddies in the BAU on it, too; they might be able to find something else that could land him in prison for good.”

Grutas’ bloody and bleeding face flashes before his eyes. If Agent Crawford had any idea what he’d done to that _pig_ , Hannibal thinks, there would be no question of him avoiding prison.

So Hannibal shakes his head. “I’m done with Grutas,” he says flatly. “But when you do catch up with Mason, ask _him_ about Mischa.”

And with that, he turns around and walks away, heading straight for the flashing ambulance lights and the three forms they silhouette against the night.

 

**_Six Months Later_ **

 

> **_VERGER’S VERDICT: SLAUGHTERHOUSE MAGNATE SENTENCED TO LIFE FOR SHOCKING CRIMES_ **
> 
> _by Freddie Lounds_
> 
> _WASHINGTON, D.C. — In the highly-anticipated, astonishing conclusion to the trial of the century, Mason Verger, former CEO of Verger Enterprises, has been found undeniably guilty of multiple counts of grand larceny, looting, grave robbing, and trespassing on state and government property, as well as single counts of kidnapping, attempted murder, and conspiracy to murder, and has been sentenced to life imprisonment without parole._
> 
> _A successful businessman and heir to the Fortune 500 meatpacking company founded by his father, Verger was initially arrested by the FBI earlier this year for attempting to break into the Old North Church in Boston, Massachusetts with two other accomplices, but not charged with any crime. Days later, Agent Jack Crawford, head of the FBI’s Art Crime Team, announced at a press conference that prior to his arrest, Verger had been the subject of a year-long investigation into illegal looting of archaeological and historical sites in the United States and abroad, most notably the wreck of the_ San Cristóbal de Toledo _. **(READ MORE: Panama and State of Florida Wage War in Court Over Spanish Galleon Wreck)** Two members of Verger’s treasure-hunting team — Dr. Alana Bloom, professor of pre-Columbian and colonial American history at Georgetown University, and Dr. Margot Verger, Verger’s sister and Records of Rights Custodian at the National Archives — later corroborated Agent Crawford’s claims._
> 
> _Then the case got even stranger. Verger’s accomplices to the Old North Church break-in — Dr. Frederick Chilton, disgraced psychiatrist turned popular history author, and Francis Dolarhyde, ex-Army — testified that Verger “strongly believed” that there was a treasure hidden beneath the church: one discovered by the Knights Templar during the Crusades, and then smuggled to the American colonies and hidden by the Freemasons during the Revolutionary War._
> 
> _The strangest part? The treasure_ was _real — and lying buried beneath not the Old North Church, but Trinity Church in New York City. **(READ MORE: Despite “Gravegate” Controversy, Trinity Church Treasure Excavation Finishes)** Verger was given a false lead by Dr. Hannibal Lecter, his former business partner and one of the eventual discoverers of the treasure._
> 
> _Dr. Lecter had plenty of reason to turn on Verger. Ten years ago, Mischa Lecter, Dr. Lecter’s sister and an amateur treasure hunter, had been tracking down the Trinity Church Treasure, but when Verger showed interest in her research, Lecter refused to share it with him. In an electrifying, emotional testimony, Dr. Lecter claimed that Verger had hired Vladis Grutas, a known criminal and mobster, to kill his sister. **(READ MORE: The Cold Case Defroster — The Murder of Mischa Lecter [SOLVED!])**_
> 
> _“After Mischa’s death, searching for the Knights Templar Treasure became my life’s mission: at points, an obsession. I had to find it; otherwise, everything my sister — and all of my family members before her — worked towards would have been for nothing,” Dr. Lecter told the rapt jury. “But had I known the extent to which Mason had gone in his pursuit of the treasure, I never would have become partners with him.”_
> 
> _In response, Verger’s veritable army of lawyers focused their defense on unsubstantiated_ ad hominem _attacks on Dr. Lecter and those who discovered the Trinity Church Treasure alongside him: Dr. Will Graham, Charters of Freedom Custodian at the National Archives; Abigail Hobbs-Lecter, Mischa Lecter’s daughter and an undergraduate student at Georgetown University, and a mysterious woman who identified herself only as “Chiyoh.” Among other allegations, Verger’s lawyers accused Lecter of stealing the Declaration of Independence (?!), which according to them, contained an invisible map to the Trinity Church Treasure on the back (?!?!), and colluding with the FBI to frame Verger for the theft (?!?!?!) to draw away attention from his own crimes, including, but not limited to: grand larceny, kidnapping, trespassing on and vandalizing a National Park site, escaping federal custody, and debatably, grand theft auto. In other words, most of the same charges Verger got slammed with._
> 
> _(I apologize to anyone reading this and rolling their eyes, but I’ve rewritten that paragraph five times and every time it’s made me laugh like hell. Sorry, boys, but speaking as someone who moonlighted as a court stenographer to pay my way through college, that defense is completely and_ hilariously _batshit insane.)_
> 
> _Ultimately, the jury decided on Verger’s guilt, sentencing him to life imprisonment without parole; for their cooperation in the investigation into Verger’s illegal activities, Dr. Chilton and Dolarhyde received reduced sentences for aiding and abetting criminal activity only. In a press conference this morning, Dr. Margot Verger applauded the verdict and condemned her brother’s actions, while announcing her resignation from her position at the National Archives in order to take on the role of CEO of Verger Enterprises._
> 
> _“For years, while Mason made every attempt to blacken my name in the academic community, he wasted the family fortune and shareholder investments on the illegal pursuit of treasure,” Dr. Verger said in a statement as Dr. Bloom, her fellow FBI informant and the new appointee for the Records of Rights Custodian, looked on with pride. “I can only hope that it’s not too late to rehabilitate not only my reputation, but that of the company that so many have lost faith in as a result of Mason’s crimes.” **(GALLERY: All-American Animal Cruelty — The Bloody History of Verger Enterprises [WARNING: NSFW])**_
> 
> _On a lighter note: while much of the Trinity Church Treasure has already been dispersed to museums around the world, per the wishes of the Lecter family, the first major exhibition to focus solely on the treasure and its historical origins, “National Treasure: The Freemasons and the Trinity Church Treasure,” will be opening January 1 at the National Museum of American History. Catch you there, TattleCriminals!_

 

Just before ten in the morning on Christmas Day, the facsimile of the Declaration of Independence that has been on display since the night of the 70th Anniversary Gala is very carefully replaced with the real Declaration of Independence. Over the past six months since its covert return to the National Archives, the specialists in the Preservation Room have been painstakingly cleaning the document and treating it for outside contaminants, while the CMS sensors in the new thermopane case were replaced and tuned up — and Will has been more than happy to monitor the Declaration’s progress every step of the way.

Though traditionally, Christmas is one of the two days the National Archives are closed to the public, the Rotunda is not as empty as it should be. Will stands closest to the display case, with Hannibal at his side and Abigail and Chiyoh just behind. Alana and Margot stand nearby, accompanied by Agent Crawford.

(The most notable absence is that of Paul Krendler, who resigned in a fit of fury when he realized that Will was, in fact, _not_ fired and returning to work the Monday after he helped discover a treasure hoard buried underneath Trinity Church. Will can’t say he misses the man.

(Will _does_ , however, miss working with Margot, but he has to admit that Alana is doing a fine job so far as the new Records of Rights Custodian. And Margot often pops in for lunch with the two of them anyway, so it’s not as though he never sees her.)

Slowly, but surely, the new case emerges from the vault, the Declaration safely inside. The seven of them watch in silence as the case turns horizontally, nestling perfectly back in its display with a small metallic _clang._

Agent Crawford is the first to speak. “Thank God this is finally over.” He turns around and starts towards the exit. “If the Constitution goes next, I know who I’m calling.”

Will raises his eyebrows. “Calling to ask for our help getting it back, or calling to inform us about the arrest warrant you’re serving in five minutes?”

Agent Crawford snorts. “With your track record, could be both.” And with that, he’s out of the Rotunda.

Abigail is still staring in disbelief at the Declaration of Independence. “It’s crazy that no one will really know it was gone or _why_ it was gone,” she says. “Crazier still that it was on my dining room table and I touched it with my bare hands.”

“No one outside this room, at least,” Chiyoh says, glancing around.

Will nods absently; out of the corner of his eye, he sees Alana and Margot drifting towards the exit, hand in hand. _And out of those people, very few know the whole story._

He looks back at Hannibal. He’s much closer to the display case than he was before, gazing down on it wordlessly with his hands folded behind his back.

Will frowns. Now that he’s moved in with Hannibal, he’s gotten used to his partner’s — not strictly in the business sense — periods of deep, contemplative, solitary silence. But this seems... oddly different.

Abigail taps his shoulder, catching his attention. “Meet you back at the house?” she asks. “Chiyoh needs to start preparing the pheasant; otherwise, it’ll never be ready in time for dinner.”

Will blinks, confused. Then: “I’m invited to Christmas dinner?”

Abigail rolls her eyes. “ _Duh._ You _and_ my uncle are.” She looks over at Hannibal, her expression suddenly uncertain. “I mean, only if you _want_ to come —”

“Of course we’ll come,” Will says hastily. “I think we just —” he glances over at Hannibal, a little disconcerted now “— we just need a moment first.”

Abigail nods like she knows what’s going on, although in this instance, Will thinks she’s just as clueless as he is. “Okay,” she says slowly. “ _But_ , if you two are late, I am _not_ to be blamed for drinking all the eggnog, got it?”

Will chuckles. “As long as you don’t give any to Winston when he’s around.”

“Not a drop.” Abigail raises two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You no longer have that honor to speak of,” Chiyoh calls over her shoulder; she’s already halfway to the exit by now. “You quit the Girl Scouts when you were thirteen.”

“That’s because my troop leader didn’t let us earn the archery badge!” Abigail retorts, hurrying after her. “Besides, night hikes with _you_ were a _lot_ less lame.”

Will smiles to himself, then turns back around and approaches the display case. Hannibal is still standing in place, with nothing to indicate that he was paying attention to any of their conversations.

“Problem?” Will asks tentatively.

Hannibal looks over at him, his gaze distant and far-away. Then he shakes his head and his vision is clear. “I’m unsure if there is,” he says after a moment. “It’s just hard to believe that… it’s all over.”

 _Oh_ , Will thinks. _That._

“Six months ago, I had little else in life but a purpose, one that I’d pursued for ten years.” Hannibal turns his eyes away from Will, refocusing on the Declaration of Independence. “Now, I have everything _but_ that purpose.”

Will shrugs. “I wouldn’t say _that_ ,” he says. “I mean, we might be done searching for the treasure, but the treasure’s still not done with us, not by a long shot.” As he speaks, he ticks items off on his fingers. “We’re both giving speeches at the opening of the Smithsonian exhibit, and I’m sure once other museums get their new acquisitions assembled, they’ll want us to be there. You’ve been getting offers of teaching positions and jobs and book deals from all kinds of organizations.” He pauses, trying to gauge if he has Hannibal’s attention. “ _And_ Margot and Alana’s wedding is in February, so we’ll be back in Trinity Church before you know it. _In_ , not underneath, for once.”

 _That_ gets a brief smile out of Hannibal. “And it will be quite the event, I’m sure,” he says. “But lately, I find it hard to believe that anything before me now could ever compare to how it felt to finally find the Knights Templar treasure.”

Will ponders that for a moment. He can’t say he doesn’t identify with that feeling; it isn’t every day you find a treasure buried for over two and a half centuries. But at the same time, he doesn’t think Hannibal’s completely correct.

“Have I ever told you why George Washington is my favorite Founding Father?” he asks suddenly.

Much to Will’s surprise, Hannibal looks up, his face confused, but curious. “I don’t believe so.”

Will shifts his feet, suddenly and strangely nervous; saying this aloud seemed too personal somehow. “Washington’s not my favorite solely because he was the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army, or because he was this country’s first president, or because of any of his other ‘firsts,’” he says. “He’s my favorite because he walked away from all of that. When the Revolutionary War ended, he resigned his military commission; at the end of his second term, he refused to run again and he returned to Mount Vernon to live out the rest of his life.

“There’s a historical anecdote I really like, where George III asked his American portrait painter about what Washington would do now that the colonies had won their independence.” Will puts his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. “When the painter told him that the word was that Washington would go home, George III said: ‘If he does that, he will be the greatest man in the world.’”

Hannibal nods in recognition. Clearly, it’s a story that appeals to him as well. “The American Cincinnatus.”

“Mm-hm.” Even with his hands tucked away from view, Will still finds his nails biting into his palms.

Hannibal is still frowning slightly. “What do you propose, then?”

“You tell me,” Will says dryly. “ _I’m_ not the psychiatrist.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows: a sure sign of a minor rudeness observed.

Will grimaces. “Okay, _maybe_ the George Washington story didn’t clarify things the way I thought it would,” he says, “because my point is less ‘walk away from everything you have for a new purpose’ and more ‘appreciate everything you have’ because… well, you _have_ everything.”

Hannibal exhales deeply. “Will —”

“Obviously, there’s that ten percent share from the treasure,” Will continues, “but you also have Abigail and Chiyoh and me. And we _get_ it; we all know how _you_ feel about this because that’s how _we_ feel.”

“Will —” Hannibal tries again.

“And you have closure!” Will exclaims, his voice rising. “Not only for the treasure, but — for yourself, for your sister. It might have taken a decade, and… I don’t know if you see it _exactly_ the same way, but… all things considered, _I_ don’t regret how this turned out.” He looks over at Hannibal. “Do you? Is _that_ what this is all about?”

Hannibal meets his eyes, his gaze soft, but steady. “No,” he says, his voice low. “I don’t regret a single thing, Will.”

Will nods, but he still feels himself frowning. “Then why —” he waves a hand in Hannibal’s direction “— all this?”

“‘All this’?” Hannibal repeats, amused.

Will huffs. _Look who’s being rude now._ “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Hannibal says. “And I recognize the point you’re attempting to make, but I must point out one thing that is slightly incorrect.”

“Just the one thing?” Will asks wryly. (If six months of living with Hannibal have taught him anything, it is: don’t get into arguments about logical fallacies, or as Hannibal calls them, “idle conversations.”) “What was it?”

“I have many things, but not, as you said, _everything_.” In one smooth motion, Hannibal goes down on one knee. “Not yet.”

Everything rushing through Will’s mind screeches to a halt. His hands, completely still, fall out of his pockets.

Hannibal produces a small velvet box from his coat pocket and opens it. “Dr. Will Graham,” he says, holding a thin jeweled band up to the light, “my dear, cunning Will: will you do me the immeasurable honor of —”

Regaining control of his mental faculties, Will tilts up Hannibal’s chin and cuts him off with a kiss. “Yes,” he says. “Of _course_ I will, you pretentious, lovesick —”

“Fiancé?” Hannibal finishes, caressing Will’s hand. He slips on the ring and presses a kiss to Will’s knuckles.

“— _dick_ ,” Will finishes, though not unkindly. “Were you making all that ennui shit entirely up, just to lead up to the proposal?”

Hannibal just smiles knowingly as he stands and tucks the empty box away. “I wouldn’t say ‘entirely,’” he says. “I will admit to some… trepidation.” He tilts his head to one side. “Do you like the ring?”

Will glances down at his hand. The ring is formed of several linked garnets, set in gold; most are a dark, gleaming green, but the one at the top is bright red. “I do,” he admits. “I’m a little scared to ask, but… was it from the treasure?”

“The ten percent share, yes,” Hannibal confirms. “I believe it belonged to a descendent of one of the surviving Knights; there’s a Templar cross and a Freemason square and compass etched inside the band.”

Will groans and rubs his temples. “Great. You’ve condemned me to wear a latex-free glove on my left hand for the rest of my life.”

Hannibal just chuckles and starts walking towards the exit of the Rotunda. “A single finger, should you wish,” he says. “Or none at all.”

Will shakes his head, but he feels a rueful smile spreading across his face as he falls into step beside Hannibal. He almost takes one last look at the Declaration of Independence before he leaves, for the sake of the moment, but he tells himself he’ll be back at work tomorrow. _And it better still be there._

Outside the National Archives, a thin, fragile layer of snow has already covered the sidewalks and streets, with more flakes fluttering through the air. The sun is rising over the city skyline, and the sky, though shadowed by clouds, is a brilliant blue.

“So,” Will asks as they retrace their steps to the curb they parked the Bentley at, only half-joking, “do you have everything that you ever wanted _now_?”

“Yes,” Hannibal answers without hesitation. He takes the car keys out of his pocket and clicks; the Bentley unlocks with a single, measured _beep._ “Do you?”

Will thinks. “Not everything,” he decides, sliding into the passenger’s seat.

Hannibal, already in the driver’s seat, glances over, his expression concerned, but earnest. “You have only to name it, and you will have it.”

Will chuckles quietly. _There’s the man I know and — well, he can be a handful, but dammit, I can’t imagine life without him somehow._

“It’s the story,” he finally says. “The story of the treasure. You’ve obviously heard it, Abigail’s heard it, I’m pretty sure Chiyoh’s heard it… but I haven’t.” He shrugs a single shoulder, cocking his eyebrows. “And if I’m going to be part of the Lecter family soon, _well_ …”

Hannibal leans over, silencing him with a kiss. “Then you _must_ hear it,” he says.

Will smiles and settles back into the leather seat. Turning the key in the ignition, Hannibal takes the wheel and the Bentley glides out over the snowy streets, engine purring. The radio station is playing the last aria of a harpsichord piece that Will knows Hannibal is fond of, so he waits until it is finished to lower the volume.

Finally, Hannibal begins. “It was the autumn of 1817, in Solothurn, Switzerland…”

**_THE END_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said that "Panamanian galleon wreck" mentioned in the early _National Treasure_ draft was probably based on the _Nuestra Señora de Atocha_? I decided to name my fictional galleon, the _San Cristóbal de Toledo_ , after another religious icon: the [massive painting of Saint Christopher](http://www.santopalooza.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Christopher-in-Toledo.jpg) in the Catedral Primada Santa María de Toledo in Toledo, Spain (which is absolutely gorgeous).
> 
> As of September 1, 2012, Margot and Alana can indeed [get married in Trinity Church](https://www.trinitywallstreet.org/about/weddings)!
> 
> I'm 90% sure I read the George Washington-George III story in one of my childhood history books, but I don't remember which one, so I found a [corroborating source](http://msa.maryland.gov/msa/mdstatehouse/html/gwresignation.html) ([actually](https://www.cato.org/publications/commentary/man-who-would-not-be-king) [three](http://hauensteincenter.org/george-washington-the-greatest-man/)), just to be safe.
> 
> Will's ring is loosely based on this [silver and garnet ring](http://www.mountvernon.org/preservation/collections-holdings/browse-the-museum-collections/object/w-2687b/#-) in the museum collections at Mount Vernon.
> 
> I know Hannibal's a harpsichord snob, but my personal favorite rendition of [Bach's Goldberg Variations](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=15ezpwCHtJs) is this public domain rendition by Kimiko Ishizaka on piano.
> 
> And finally, just for fun: [Everything Wrong With _National Treasure_ In 13 Minutes Or Less](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ul-_ZWvXTs&spfreload=5).
> 
> Thank you for your support! This Big Bang is my first, and I hope you enjoyed reading it just as much as I enjoyed writing it! Catch me over [on Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more _Hannibal_ and more fanfiction, and if you liked [carrioncrowned](https://carrioncrowned.tumblr.com/)'s art (and how could you not?), you can also find the [_Sons of Liberty_ art masterpost](https://carrioncrowned.tumblr.com/post/166466109966/sons-of-liberty-my-submission-for-the) and even more art there as well!
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> **BrunetteAuthorette99**  
>  _


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